


Seizing the Day

by HenceComesAutumn



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Broadway Newsies, Davey causes a revolution singlehandedly, High School, High School AU, Multi, Newsies - Freeform, Newsies High School AU, SO MANY OCS GUYS YOU HAVE NO IDEA, everything goes to shit, i'm pretty sure everyone gets a happy ending eventually, newsies musical - Freeform, the characters are all pretty badass, they're like FAMILY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2019-08-20 17:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16560041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenceComesAutumn/pseuds/HenceComesAutumn
Summary: |And the only option was to stand and fight.|--A modern high school AU of our favourite newsboys. Loosely follows the musical/movie.





	1. Carrying the Banner (Jack Kelly)

CHAPTER ONE: CARRYING THE BANNER

JACK KELLY

 

He was about sick and tired of watching people walk by.

"School paper?" The boy offered an article to a girl who was trying to rush off to her locker, one individual in a swirling swarm of bodies that pressed thickly through the hallways of the school.  Either entirely uninterested or having not heard him, she swept past, her shoulder neatly clipping the newspaper he had outstretched in his hand without a second glance.

Same as always.

"Y'know," Jack glared at her quickly disappearing back, before glancing over and catching the slight grin on the face of the teen next to him, who was waving a paper in his own hand, "I could almost swear we were invisible."

"Eh, c'mon Jack," the other boy smiled brightly, happy to be out and doing something, even if nobody else seemed to take notice. He turned as best as he could without disturbing his single crutch, resettling the papers that had nearly slipped from his arms, "I can see ya'."

"'Course  _you_  can, Crutchie. It wasn't you I was talkin' about."

Todd- or Crutchie, nicknamed by the permanent crutch under his right arm at all times, did nothing but roll his eyes. He'd been Jack's best friend for as long as he cared to remember, and had never failed to prove his loyalty. An outcast of the athletic group, because of his crippled leg, and a shy boy from the get-go, Crutchie had fallen into Jack's world with the same grace a train would acquire when slamming into a wall. It was as if the years of Jack's life before his best friend didn't exist; he was such a crucial part of who he was that it sometimes became hard to differentiate when and where their stories began.

While most of the other kids in the school seemed to shun the cripple for his abnormality, Jack had never been fazed. To be honest, he hardly ever remembered that Crutchie was different-that his best friend had a horrible limp and a metal appendage that served as a reminder of a tragic farm accident that had left his leg broken in four different places when he was twelve. There was just Crutchie, whole and simple, and to change any part of him would have been to change him entirely.

"When was the last time we had any interest at all in these things, Crutchie?" Jack grimaced, tossing his stack of newspapers back down to the floor beside him. The other boy frowned, wincing as he eased himself into a sitting position on the edge of the podium, his face twisted into a thoughtful frown, "Everybody brushes us off. Nobody cares anymore. Not 'bout the paper, anyway."

"Well, with headlines like that," Crutchie gestured towards the black and white print disdainfully, "Can't say I blame 'em all that much."

It was probably the fourth article that had been produced about the importance of healthy diets in leading longer lives, and that cafeterias like the one the New York Institution had were something to be admired. Crutchie scowled, "Honestly, Jack. It's been a joke ever since Pulitzer passed the idea that teachers make the topics."

It  _had_ been a joke- to their principal, at least, who didn't seem to care that the once flourishing club had completely nosedived over the course of the past year. There had been a time when they'd have been sold out of papers by noon. Now, they were lucky if they even sold five a day. With a student body of over five hundred students, to say the lack of enthusiasm from their peers was disappointing was an understatement.

Jack sighed, slumping next to his friend.

"Let's pack it up. There ain't gonna be anyone interested today."

Rejected and frustrated, the boys gathered up their papers for what seemed like déjà vu for the billionth time, and trudged against the flow of students, doing their best not to drop any of the articles on their way back.

"This paper used to be about somethin', Crutchie," Jack was continuing, "We was a team- the writers, and the journalists, and the editors-"

"And the Newsies."

"Yeah," Jack let out a laugh that closely resembled a bark, his eyes remaining downcast. "And the Newsies."

After the whole situation had fallen to pieces, almost everybody in the old team had quit, until it was just Jack, Crutchie, and a young girl named Katherine, who had taken up the writing role after the main writer dropped her position.  _Three_ people left out of what had used to be a group of maybe  _thirty_ individuals.

"I miss the old days," Crutchie sighed, trying his best to keep up with Jack, who hadn't realized that his friend was struggling to keep up with him. He slowed, slightly, "Back when it weren't just the three of us. Back when people used to line up to get a pape. When y'd walk into the cafeteria durin' lunch, and there would be people laughin' and talkin' about the latest in the paper, and showin' it to their friends. And ya' knew ya' did a good job, and were proud of what ya' did. I miss that."

"Yeah," Jack answered, grimly. The two walked in silence from there, mulling in their own thoughts. It was disheartening and irritating, and more than anything, he wanted someone to blame. He wanted to be able to look Pulitzer in the eye, and say, "You did this," but what would be the point? The man had known exactly what he was doing when he all but hamstringed the school paper, and everyone knew it. He ran half of the newspaper industries in New York, after all. And it wasn't as if-

"Hey, Jack!" Jack turned quickly, almost dropping his papers as a figure came barreling towards him, full speed, and startling him out of his melancholy thoughts.

"Woah! Watch it there, Race!" He warned as the boy skidded to a halt mere inches away from Jack, a wide grin lighting up his features. Anthony 'Racetrack' Higgins was a skinny boy, scrawny in size, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in personality. The kid was yet another foster child (one of many at the Institute, which catered mainly to foster families all across New York) and even though he was only a few months younger than Jack, which had incidentally set him in the grade below him, Jack had always felt a familial sentiment for the boy, whose big mouth often landed him in the office for one thing or another, usually sporting a new black eye, and a couple loose teeth.

Despite his reckless nature and bad gambling habit, the dark-haired boy was a good friend to keep around; one of the main reasons being that he practically ran the other Lodging House in Manhattan. There were two Houses; the one that Jack and Crutchie stayed in was run by a middle-aged man named Kloppman, who, while always seeming to be overrun with teenage boys in the small building, never failed to provide. There was always a bed for each child to sleep in, and warm food for all, even if some nights the soup seemed more watered down than others.

The other house, run by Ms. Tabitha Cardinal, an elderly matron who Jack had maybe seen twice in his whole life, had basically become Race's responsibility. At age seventeen, Anthony Higgins had become a figurehead for the boys who lodged with him; an unsung leader of sorts. Of course, nobody dared mention it out loud, for fear of word reaching the authorities that Ms. Cardinal wasn't truly the one dealing with the finances and sending the boys to school and such; then again, Jack reasoned, she was well into her nineties, and it was a marvel that the crotchety old woman still had the gall to let ten to fifteen boys stay in her old two-story shack to begin with. He'd spent just as much time visiting the other Lodging House than staying in his own, over the years, and from the sheer amount of ruckus he'd heard caused by the tenants, he was somewhat amazed she hadn't chased them all off, waving her cane in the air like a sword.

Having Race as a friend, though, meant that the two Houses got along extremely well, and minimized any major conflicts that the two group's boys might have had. Jack himself had become a turn-to figure for his boys, though Kloppman still had everything else well in hand, so the fact that the two leaders of Manhattan were so close had resulted in such an amiability with all the boys, that it was sometimes hard to remember which child belonged to which House. It wasn't uncommon for there to be an extra face or two at dinner, or another person crashing in a spare bed for a few days here and there. Kloppman never seemed to mind, and Race was always happy to have the other Manhattaners over to visit for a while; and from the rare amount of times Ms. Cardinal ever left her room, she either didn't notice that she had extra children, didn't care, or flat out didn't remember any of them anyways.

Still, everyone was cautious not to give any indication that the old woman had become unsuitable to take care of the boys. If anybody were to find out...Well, at best, they might be split up and sent to Houses in different boroughs, or to the rare-and-few-between families that wanted to support a 'trouble child' from the slums, but the most likely scenario would be that they'd be sent to the Refuge until they could become someone else's problem.

 _Nobody_ wanted to be sent to the Refuge. As bad as the idea of their small family being broken apart was, the idea of all of them being stuck together in such a horrible place was even worse.

"Y'hear the news?" Race asked excitedly, and Jack frowned, his anger and frustration fizzling away, though reluctant interest and concern now took over. 'News' from Race wasn't typically of the 'good' variety unless one considered hot tips from other gamblers to be good or news.

"Nuh," Crutchie shook his head, eyes narrowed, casting a sideways glance at Jack.

"Nope," He repeated Crutchie's answer, and Race chuckled.

"See, Mush was tellin' me that there's gonna be a good soakin' later," he lowered his voice, wiggling his eyebrows, "Should be interestin'."

"Between who?!" Crutchie's voice was incredulous, and Jack could feel disappointment and confusion settle on his chest for a moment. Fights were common in the Institute, but they weren't something people ever got excited about. In fact, maybe it was that exact reason as to why they weren't popular. People were so used to hearing about them by now, that nothing came as a shock anymore.

"Mush said the Delanceys," Race kept his voice down, leaning in toward the two boys in front of him, eyes wide, "And one of them Brooklyn kids."

Jack snorted in surprise. Most of the fights started at the Institute were instigated by bullies; the Delanceys, primarily, though there were others from all the boroughs scattered throughout. Regardless, though, the Delancey brothers didn't go after the Brooklyn kids very often. Maybe it was because they were afraid of the group's leader, which, then again, most of the school was- but Race had been right; this soaking might be one to remember. Brooklyn, more of a gang than anything else, stayed true to their own, and to fight one of them meant that you'd be fighting them all. They had a no-nonsense policy, and never backed down from a challenge, making them one of the most feared 'cliques' at the school- if it was even fair to call them that. None of the boys came from a Lodging House, and they didn't live together either, but they spent very few hours apart and were probably some of the most loyal individuals Jack had ever met, even if it begrudged him a bit to admit it.

"Golly," Crutchie breathed, adjusting his papers under his arm. Race smirked, eyes twinkling.

"I'll catch you two later- Pulitzer'll skin me if I end up late again."

With that, he sped off, leaving nothing but two stunned boys behind him.

"The Delanceys 'ave some nerve goin' after Brooklyn," Jack muttered, and Crutchie rolled his eyes.

"Either that, or they'se knocked a few bolts loose." he spun his finger around his left temple while making a weird face, and Jack laughed, nudging his friend carefully.

"We gotta go. Katherine's probably waitin'."

Crutchie groaned, eyeing the papers in his and Jack's arms.

"This is gonna kill her."

"Maybe," guilt rose up in Jack's heart as he thought about how disappointed the girl would be that, once again, there had been no interest in the paper. She had put a lot of time into trying to keep the thing alive, but so far, it had only proved to be a hassle with no reward, "It ain't our fault, Crutchie. It ain't Katherine's either. If anything, Pulitzer's to blame for this whole thing."

Crutchie stayed quiet as he limped along behind Jack slowly, in that shuffle-step that he'd come to memorize.

As was expected, Katherine was less than thrilled at the lack of success the article had produced, but accepted it with modest defeat.

"We just need to try harder next time," She sighed, and Jack could see the tired determination in her eyes, "We'll get them back. Just you wait and see."

Jack seriously doubted it, but decided it would just be best to smile and nod. Maybe Katherine was right. Maybe they could prop the paper back up on its feet.

Yeah, and maybe if they tried hard enough, they could toss the Delanceys to the moon.


	2. When Facing Brooklyn (Jack Kelly)

CHAPTER TWO: WHEN FACING BROOKLYN

JACK KELLY

 

After seeing the results the next day, Jack was glad he hadn't witnessed the actual fight itself. The Delanceys looked fine- one had a bruised eye, the other was flaunting a swollen nose, but all in all, their damage intake was minimal.

Brooklyn had other things to say.

When Jack had first seen the kid, he'd had to force himself to look away- it was like a bad car wreck. Something you didn't want to see, but couldn't stop staring at. The boy's face was black and blue around a split lip and a heavily bandaged left eye. One of his arms was in a sling, and he limped as he walked- almost as bad as Crutchie. Worst of all was the fact that while the two bullies were easily past eighteen years of age, the mangled child from Brooklyn looked as though he couldn't be any older than fifteen. 

He was slight for a Brooklyn member; wearing a jacket that looked as though it had been borrowed from someone older, taller, broader across the shoulders, and his jeans were frayed at the hems. His hands couldn't seem to stop fidgeting in such a startlingly childish way; knotting into the over-washed blue fabric of his t-shirt, and playing with the cuffs on his coat, and fiddling with the buttons pierced through the leather that were supposed to be used to snap up the front. He looked so disbelievingly young that for a moment, Jack felt as though _he'd_ been punched in the gut. He felt a pang of sympathy for the boy as he lurched down the hallway, but upon seeing the Delanceys' leering faces, and grins of triumph as their gaze raked at the boy down the hallway, he considered whether or not his sympathy should have been turned toward the two brothers.

They thought they'd won, but man- they had another thing coming.

Still, as the boy passed the two brothers, his stooped posture straightened defiantly, and he raised his chin, his good eye blazing with everything he had. The nervous fidgeting stopped, his face lost it's boyish innocence, and suddenly, Jack saw it. The kid had some definite fire in him, and it blazed in the courage he protruded as he stared the bullies down, hefting his ratty backpack higher on his shoulder, his gaze daring them to come any closer than they already were.

' _There's_ the Brooklyn in him.' Jack thought, surprised at how smug he felt upon seeing some of the confidence fade in Oscar Delancey's eyes. If he'd been hoping the smaller boy would cower away, and take his beating with any kind of shame, he'd been horribly wrong.

Visibly angered by the boy's reaction, Oscar overcame his initial moment of hesitation, and stepped forward with a snarl, only for his brother to quickly yank him back as another figure stepped in behind the young boy with a look that could kill. Jack vaguely recognized the newcomer; a tall boy around Morris Delancey's height, with hair that was close-cropped on the sides, and such a dark brown, it could have passed for black, while he left the middle section longer and bleached a pale blond. Faint lines from a hidden tattoo scrawled ever so slightly past the collar of his shirt, which, when paired with the numerous scars on his hands, and one across his left forearm, made him look more menacing than anyone Jack would have been comfortable to approach.

Wordlessly, the older Brooklyn boy rested a hand on the younger's shoulder, and propelled him away from the Delancey's, his eyes as cold as steel the whole time. Though he made no move to fight either of them or accuse them of what they'd done, Jack could tell it was like a physical strain not to. The boy's jaw was clenched tight, his entire frame seeming tense like a livewire, scowling the whole way.

Oscar and Morris waited for the two boys to leave their line of sight, before starting to snicker, gesturing towards where the two had walked off. It was obvious that neither one of them was overly bright if they hadn't realized they'd made a crucial mistake.

Jack feigned disinterest in the ordeal, gathering his binders out of his locker, and heading towards his next class, careful not to look at the Delanceys, or really anyone else for that matter until he was well out of their way. Word travelled fast in the school, and the last thing he wanted was for the Delanceys to think he was willing to challenge them. As much as it pained him not to do something, he had a lot of young boys in his House too, and the last thing he wanted was to be patching up his own brothers. No, for the time being, it was better to keep his head down and stay out of the conflict.

Plodding through the swarm of bodies, he eventually found himself walking next to a familiar shape.

"Did ya' see what they did to that kid?!" Crutchie hissed, as Jack slowly pulled his friend's binders out from under his arm, and stacked them on top of his own. Crutchie sighed, shaking out his arm, which had been struggling to keep a hold on the things in the first place, "Thanks."

"Yeah, looked pretty bad," Jack mumbled, keeping his voice down, his prior concerns coming to mind.

"Oh, just wait. Them Delanceys won't know what hit 'em." Someone elbowed Jack in the side, and he turned sharply, panic lurching like a wild horse in his chest before a tsunami wave of relief swamped him 

"Mush! Ya' scared me, man!"

The boy in question grinned wolfishly, and rolled his shoulders, before glancing around to make sure nobody was listening to them, his eyes bright as he waited for a girl to pass by, and then stooped back over to continue his conversation with his two friends.

"Seriously, though. I'm bettin' it's gonna be the second break."

"What?" Crutchie wrinkled his nose in confusion at the tall boy. Mush was another foster kid in Race's unit, who, for some odd reason, had decided to take it upon himself to become the leader of the debate team after giving up on the paper. He was in the same situation as Race, as far as grades went, and he'd worked as a Newsie with Jack and Crutchie before everything went downhill- not that Jack held much of a grudge against him for it. The paper had taken a lot of time after school, and Mush had already been working two jobs to help raise up money for his younger sister to go to college when she was older. As far as Jack knew, he'd never saved any money to go to post-secondary himself.

He also had quite a bit on his plate being Race's second in command. The two of them, while seemingly polar opposites for the most part, had been nearly joined at the hip for as long as Jack had known them. While Race was brash and loud, and too cocky at times for his own good, Mush was more laid back and kind, always armed with optimistic smiles and a mild countenance that made him easy to approach and instantly likable. Though now, it seemed, something had him all worked up.

Mush ran a hand through his dark hair, huffing slightly.

"Second break? That's when I'm bettin' they'll get soaked. Race is bettin' lunch hour. I've got five bucks on the line if I'm wrong."

Crutchie mumbled something about 'responsibility', and 'think you'd know better', but Jack just patted Mush on the back with his free hand, and held his tongue. They were gutter boys; why strip away any small amount of happiness they stumbled across?

The three friends chatted amiably as they headed for chemistry- Crutchie about the weather, Mush about girls, and Jack mingling with both. But the thoughts of the fight were still on his mind, and past that point, the newspaper. How were they going to keep that wrecked dream afloat?

"Hey, Jack! You in there?" Jack snapped back to reality, finding Mush waving a hand in his face.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. What was that?"

"We're here, bro. Chemistry room? Geez, dude, you feelin' okay?" Mush asked concernedly as Jack swivelled, checking out their surroundings. True to Mush's word, they were standing at the door of the chemistry lab, some of their classmates already having taken their seats. Jack felt his face heat up with embarrassment.

"I'm good. Just...Lost in my own head, I guess."

"Yeah, well," Mush glanced over his shoulder, an uncommon frown beginning to swallow up his features. "Don't get too comfy up there. Looks like ya' got some company."

Pulitzer was a stone man, and by that, it was meant that his features looked like they'd been chiselled from granite, and he was grey. Not literally, but his eyes, his hair, even his suit- grey. His attitude? Grey. Not black and white. Grey. Everything had a compromise, anything could be bargained. That's how Pulitzer worked.

Kind of like how he'd said they could keep the paper, but couldn't choose what to put in it.

As far as anyone could remember, the name Pulitzer had always been a big deal in New York. It didn't matter what borough you were in; that man seemed to have his fingers dipped in  _everything_. Real estate, businesses, the Institute; he had investments all over.

 _Big_ investments. The kind that a rag-tag kid from the battered streets of Manhattan would never even dream of having the funds for.

There was a sort of relaxed, yet stern gleam in his eye as he approached the three boys, and Jack felt his teeth clench together uncomfortably against his will, his hands curling into fists.

"Charlie. Todd. Jack." The headmaster inclined his head at them slightly, his words crisp, "Good morning to you all."

"Good morning, sir," the three teens mumbled back in unison, none of them meaning it. Pulitzer clicked his tongue, folding his hands behind his back.

"I heard there was a fight yesterday. I take it you three weren't involved?"

"Nah, sir," Mush replied, before adding cheekily, "If we was, you'd know."

"And why is that?"

"The whole school woulda been buzzin' 'bout how good I looked playin' the hero, sir." Mush replied modestly, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Jack had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh, and Crutchie giggled, though he tried to cover it with a cough. Pulitzer turned a decent shade of purple, before adjusting his tie.

"You make me laugh, Charlie," he stated dryly, and Mush gave a mock salute.

"Just doin' my duty, sir!" he grinned, as Pulitzer's frown widened, and he fidgeted with his collar again. Jack wondered somewhat remotely if it were itchy.

"...Certainly." the headmaster sniffed, drawing his attention to Jack, who'd remained silent throughout the whole ordeal, "Make sure you're all present for the assembly this afternoon, boys. I'd hate to have to go searching,"

Jack's face brightened slightly with embarrassment. He'd only skipped the monthly assembly once; had Pulitzer not caught him sneaking back into the building close to the end, he might have been able to pull such a stunt off again. But really, who could blame him? He couldn't help it if the school-wide meeting was so boring; and those bleachers were hard for anyone to sit on, let alone for a full forty minutes, "Oh, and Charlie? Do tie up your shoe. I'd hate to see any more black eyes around here just because you were foolish  enough to trip over your own laces." Pulitzer made a large deal out of straightening his tie and brushing some nonexistent lint from his shoulder before quickly and stiffly moving on as if he had an iron rod where his spine should have been.

"'Tie up your shoe, Charlie, before ya' cause a horrible accident,'" Mush mimicked, leaning down to pull his mismatched shoelaces into a knot, "Yeah right, as if my shoes are gonna cause any more trouble than the Delancey brothers. He should be tellin' them what-for, not me."

"Ya' know he won't," Crutchie admonished gently, "All the teachers are just as scared of those two as Pulitzer is. That's why they've let it go on so long."

It was strange to think; that the students could hold so much sway over the teachers, but it was the truth. Not once had Jack ever seen a teacher lift a finger towards punishing the two boys for anything in class, except Mr. Denton, their English teacher, who'd been swiftly told by Pulitzer that the boys were a special case, and were to be treated delicately. It was no secret that the principal favoured the Delanceys for one reason or another, though why, Jack couldn't imagine.

"Yeah, well it ain't right." Mush growled, glaring at the wall in frustration-something rarely seen in him, "School is supposed to be a place where you can be safe. Them ain't safe." He jerked his thumb towards the Delancey duo, who were stalking past them in the hallway. Fortunately, neither boy seemed to notice Mush's comment and continued plodding along. "I mean, the amount of fightin' around here is gettin' out of hand. I'm all up for a good one-on-one every now and then, but this is the second time Snipeshooter's come home with a broken nose, and Race's gettin' sick of bein' pushed around all the time-"

"Kloppman won't let the younger boys walk home alone anymore," Crutchie chipped in, biting his lip, "Says it's too dangerous."

Jack couldn't help but agree with him. Things were screwed up enough at home- living as a foster kid with other orphaned boys was bad enough, but then coming to school and having no safe place to call your own there either, really, put a damper on the idea that school was a great place to be.

But Jack was fortunate- he had a safe place. He'd never been there yet, but he had one, and its name was Santa Fe. Geez, he'd lie awake in bed all night thinking about it, and get up the next morning with it buzzing on his mind. Santa Fe- He'd get there, eventually. He'd get there, and he'd make a name for himself- he'd become big, and everyone would know the name 'Jack Kelly' by the time he was through. And everyone would see that the poor, orphaned boy who'd spent so much time transferring from house to house, orphanage to orphanage, was important.

He just had to make it through high school first.

"Them Delanceys had better watch their tails," Mush was continuing, and he gave a good hoot as he added, "Man, I'd love to see the tables turned on 'em for once."

"I think all of us would." Jack agreed quietly, finally voicing his own thoughts, Crutchie nodding beside him.

And maybe that's why nobody was surprised when, two hours later, Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn, marched unchallenged through the busy cafeteria, blood dripping from his knuckles, leaving a red trail on the white linoleum floor. The small Brooklyn boy from before hurried after him, the look on his face one of pride and admiration and relief.

The Delancey brothers were, Jack noted with a small amount of satisfaction, nowhere to be seen.

And it didn't happen often- no, it rarely happened at all, but Jack could have sworn that the Brooklyn leader's mouth twitched upwards in a small half-grin as he passed by, no doubt catching the changing of hands of the five dollar bill that had been passed from Mush to Race under the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Hell hath no fury like a pissed Spot Conlon.
> 
> Onward to Chapter Three!  
> -Hence


	3. "Angering Your Writer 101" (Jack Kelly)

CHAPTER THREE: "ANGERING YOUR WRITER 101"

JACK KELLY

 

"...And congratulations to the Chess Club for their invigorating win over last year's reigning champions, the Staten Island Squires!"

Jack groaned loudly as he rubbed his temples, trying his best to pay attention to the podium, and failing miserably. He knew the teachers found the assemblies important; he'd received countless lectures on the necessity of understanding what was going on in the school community, and supporting their fellow classmates and their achievements, but this was becoming brutal.

The Institute generally tried for one gathering per month, which, had Jack reflected on it, wasn't really all that bad. There were, in fact, other schools in Manhattan that required an assembly per week, or for the students to recite the national anthem every morning and afternoon. In comparison, their school's mandate seemed pretty relaxed; but that didn't make the experience any more enjoyable.

One glance to the left proved that even the chess team didn't appear to be all that excited about their 'thrilling' victory and that Mrs. Bulcan was probably wasting her breath; a sad thing too, seeing as she appeared to be about as old as the dinosaurs, and surely couldn't have much breath left to give out willy-nilly.

Jack wondered, fleetingly, if the elderly teacher had ever met Ms. Cardinal, and whether or not the two would have gotten along. After a moment, he deduced that yes, they likely would have. Both women were strict, though Mrs. Bulcan was sweeter, although she'd once called him 'Mack' for an entire semester without ever realizing her mistake. How it was that she'd never noticed, he didn't understand; his name had been written clear as day on the attendance list from his first time in her class, and it wasn't as if his classmates never called him out by name. It had been a shock to receive his report card with the correct spelling until Davey later confided in him that Mr. Denton had fixed Mrs. Bulcan's error when he noticed Jack's papers sitting on the staff photocopier.

It had been like this for the past twenty minutes. As usual, there was the constant appraisal of various individuals and groups, only to receive quarter-hearted applause. The incessant chatter in that one part of the room that never seemed to let up, despite the shushing of multiple teachers, continued to buzz. Then there was another matter entirely- how uncomfortable it was to sit in the same place, bored out of your mind, surrounded by stuffy, dead air, and the rest of your school. It was blatant torture, and Jack wanted nothing more than to run from the over-crowded room, but he settled for restlessly bouncing his knee, though this meant he was also consequently jolting his leg up and down against Kid Blink's back.

The one-eyed teen turned to glare at him, after putting up with a minimal amount of jiggling, but the effort seemed almost pointless as he merely shrugged, and turned around again, too bored to care. Beside him, Crutchie was tugging hopelessly at a loose string on his sweater, probably only making the situation worse, and Mush had yawned three times in the last minute, at least that Jack had seen, and was resting his head back on a grimacing Racetrack's scrawny knees.

"This is just gettin' ridiculous." The dark-haired teen grumbled, pretending he couldn't see the teacher that instantly whipped around at the sound of another voice speaking out of turn and gave him a clear look that read ' _quiet down!'._

"Seems like they're handin' out awards for every branch of mediocrity they can, these days." Mush commented dully, lacking his normal cheerful spunk, "What d'ya' think I could get a shiny medal for, fellas?"

"Most wasted potential?" Blink offered dryly, smirking as Mush immediately let out a drawling ' _Heeeyyy!_ ' of protest. A petty war soon ensued, with Mush kicking Kid's shoulder repeatedly, leaving dusty shoe prints all over the back of the other teen's blue NYI volleyball hoodie, while Blink continuously let out muffled noises of protest, occasionally smacking a hand at Mush's battered Converses. The two boys got more than their fair share of glares from the teachers, but nobody stepped in to intervene, as there was a transition at the podium.

Jack shook his head as the boys goofed around, happy to see that Mrs. Bulcan had shuffled back to her red plastic seat on the far right side of the gymnasium, beside the emergency exit, and that Mr. Pulitzer was taking up center stage- a sure sign that the assembly was almost over.

"Oh good." Crutchie mumbled, clearly noticing the same thing Jack had, " My leg's been numb for the past five minutes."

The shorter boy began running his hand up and down his bad leg in mild irritation, a look of tempered discomfort etched in his young face, mostly in the form of a barely concealed grimace. This sudden movement managed to disturb his crutch, which jolted precariously to the side. Fortunately, Race's reflexes were swift enough to snag the metal apparatus before it fell from the bleachers completely, though he waited until Crutchie had finished re-positioning his leg before handing the light aluminum shaft back to the sandy-haired boy, who was muttering his apologies and thanks.

Shooting his friend a sympathetic look, Jack turned his attention back to the principal of the Institute, beyond relieved that the whole ordeal was almost over and done with. Some things got better with time; school assemblies did not make that list.

"Good afternoon, valued students," Pulitzer announced, bracing both hands of either side of the podium, his face an unreadable mask of indifference, "I thank you all for your patience and your time. Just a few final words on my part, and then you'll be back to class-"

A mass sound of complaint from all the students present cut the man off; Jack's corner of the crowd not exempt. While he didn't like assemblies, most students found them to at least be a break from the mundane ritual that was everyday class, and most of them were in no rush to get back to their studies. 

Beside him, Mush groaned and dramatically flopped back against Race's knees, emitting a surprised yelp from the shorter teen, and Kid let out a heavy sigh, his and Mush's temporary scuffle seemingly forgotten. Crutchie, however, looked grateful at this news, and settled his crutch across his lap, waiting for their principal to continue.

Said man frowned as the grumbling drew out for a few long seconds.

"That's enough," He barked, "I'll not have any complaints about learning here! You'd do well to remember that all of this costs you nothing, while it costs myself and every other person involved in this venture a fair amount."

Jack had to stifle a groan at this, recognizing a familiar speech that the students heard often.

Race rolled his eyes comically, "Is  _everything_ money with this guy?" He asked, voicing Jack's thoughts perfectly.

"So settle down, and we'll finish this as quickly as we can," Pulitzer plowed over Race's comment, likely having not heard it. "To start, badminton practice days have been switched from Mondays to Thursdays; if you need a copy of the calendar, see Mr. Guilfrey during break time, or take a look at the paper posted in the front hallway.

"Secondly, I have been informed that under no circumstances will food or beverages be allowed in the library as of today. You have all been notified; a library is a place of research, not a place to finish your lunches."

It was hardly a worthwhile statement; Jack didn't know of anyone aside from maybe Davey Jacobs who'd set foot in the library in over twenty years. Well, aside from the librarian, Mrs. Hodge. But she didn't count, seeing as how Jack was pretty sure the sour-faced woman never  _left._

"And last, but not least, a message regarding the School Paper."

This piqued Jack's interest.

' _Recognition- yes, that's_   _exactly what we need!'_

"This year, we've experienced more...Financial struggle than in the past. The economy's not at it's best, children, and it's starting to take a toll on our Institute. The school board has decided that we need to let some extracurricular activities go; and so, the school newspaper has been voted to be taken out of the system."

The world dropped out from under Jack's feet.

Any hopes he might have had about Pulitzer rallying some kind of support from the students, of giving them the spotlight, of trying to help prop them back up were crushed instantaneously.

There was little argument over this, aside from a few grumblings, but Jack still felt floored. Pulitzer was getting rid of the paper? After everything they'd done to try and salvage it?

Beside him, Crutchie jolted soundly, his crutch completely falling off his lap this time. It landed with a sound clatter on the waxed floor of the gymnasium, catching a few other students' attention as they glanced around to see what the cause of the noise had been. Race cursed under his breath; whether because of Pulitzer or Crutchie, Jack didn't know, but he was betting on the older man as the other leader of Manhattan promptly rose from his seat and fetched Todd's crutch yet again, handing it off to the other boy without a word, before sitting back down. There were storms brewing in his eyes as he scowled at Pulitzer, his hand coming to rest on Jack's shoulder in a way that was meant to be comforting, but caused more harm than good as his fingers began to dig painfully into Jack's skin.

"Sorry, boys." Mush murmured apologetically, glancing up at Jack and Crutchie, who both seemed temporarily unresponsive.

"We've had to make budget cuts, and while we know this might be a blow to some of you-"

Pulitzer was cut off yet again by a growl of complete and utter fury, as Katherine Plumber jumped up from her place on the bleachers, pushed past all the kids sitting in front of her, and stormed from the gym, curling brown hair practically bristling as she stomped out. The door slammed shut behind her, the immediate burst of silence that followed feeling near-deafening.

Their last writer...The one who'd tried the most out of all three of them to keep their heads above the water...

Jack's heart hurt for the girl, and yet he couldn't deny the fact that he'd have to have been a fool not to see such actions coming. The paper had been going downhill so long-

But to completely pull the rug out from under their feet like that...That was low. They'd had no warning. None at all.

 _It was almost like the club hadn't mattered_.

"Ahem. As I was saying, while this may be a blow to some of you, I'm sure you'll all handle it in a mature and responsible manner. It's nothing personal; just business." The principal's closing words as he stepped away from the podium, silently dismissing the students left a bitter taste in Jack's mouth. Just business. They were just business.

For a few moments, Jack just sat there, shell-shocked, somewhat unaware through the fury that misted his vision that Mush and Race had left the gym, and Kid Blink was walking away also, his one eye not covered by his ever-present eye patch displaying his uncharacteristic pity. It had happened; it had finally happened.

They were done.

Finally regaining his wits, and realizing he was one of the only stragglers left to be herded out of the gym, Jack rose to his feet, cast a solemn glare all around, and marched steadfastly out of the room. However, instead of going to class, as he'd been told, Jack streamed out into the hallway, same as the others, and then set off in search of Katherine, knowing exactly where she'd be, dejection bubbling in his chest all the while.

The 'Newsroom', as all members of the school paper committee had dubbed the small office that held all the school records, was nothing more than a glorified janitor's closet. The school had supplied the team with a bundle of paper per month, and a small, ancient printer that took ink cartridges the size of Jack's forearm. From years of past experience, Jack knew there were a few chairs scattered around from their last meeting, but for the most part the only furniture present would be broken desks, and dusty chalkboards, wheeled out of sight and mind.

Anyone else might have considered the small space a sincere disappointment, especially considering the funding the football team received every year, but to the dubbed 'Paper Club', it was their fortress.

"Kath?" Jack knocked carefully on the aged blue door, slightly worried for the younger girl. It was clear that she'd been extremely upset once Pulitzer had broken the news, "Ace, ya' in there?"

The nickname slipped off his tongue before he could help it. Ace; she hated it when they called her that, but the name had kind of stuck after someone had made the mistake of calling Katherine their 'ace writer'. Since then, it was the term they almost always called her by, and one she'd grudgingly learned to respond to, no matter how bitter she might have been about it.

Times like this, though, he didn't care whether or not the nickname was a bother; he just cared about whether or not his friend would be okay.

" _Go away, Kelly_!" Was the automatic reply, the girl's voice livid and crackling with dangerous energy, and so very undeniably Katherine Plumber. With that in mind, there was only one logical thing left to do-

Jack turned the knob and slipped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes out to all of you who have been reading this so far! I definitely wasn't expecting so many reads, seeing as how we were only two chapters in.  
> Also, special thanks and shoutout to tuppenny and jabeetlemonster for the kudos! I'm glad you guys have been enjoying the ride.  
> Lastly, I've got a question for any readers- who's your favourite Newsie? Feel free to comment below!  
> Onward and upward!  
> -Hence


	4. Plotting and Rebellion (Jack Kelly)

CHAPTER FOUR: PLOTTING AND REBELLION

JACK KELLY

 

It was instinct more than anything that made him duck as he entered the room, a hard-bound atlas with a horribly broken spine slamming into the wall inches from his head, showering pages everywhere.

"I told you to stay out!" Katherine shouted, her face bright red from anger and crying. Jack closed the door behind him with a familiar click, perching in his regular spot up on a busted filing cabinet.

"Actually, I think ya' told me ta go away," Jack specified, resting his feet on the single remaining handle of the cabinet, the structure squeaking protestingly under his weight, "But I'm not great at listenin'  _or_ followin' instructions, so..."

For a split second, he wondered if he'd jumped a line rather than toeing it as Katherine reached for another atlas, but she, fortunately, hesitated to throw it as the door swung open again, revealing a worried Crutchie.

"Hey, Kath- Oh!"

The blond quickly put the door back between the writer and himself, having gotten a clear view of Jack trying to protect his head with his arms, and Katherine poised to strike for the second time.

With a sigh that could have knocked down a forest, Katherine tossed the large book over her shoulder, not bothering to check and see where it landed.

"It's alright, Crutchie. Come on in."

Jack shot the girl an irritated look as the other boy tentatively hobbled into the room after a moment's hesitation, his gaze wary and sad.

"Oh, so he can waltz in here  _no problem_ , but the second  _I_ try ta offer emotional support-"

"He's not as annoying as you are, Kelly."

She said it with a huff, but her spunk had been snuffed, her shoulders slumping. Her usually sharp tongue has seemed to have lost its wit, and she just looked, well, defeated as she fell heavily onto a plastic desk seat, rubbing at her eyes.

Jack felt his annoyance melt away, reluctantly, as he watched Katherine struggle to maintain her composure. Typically, the girl had an air of complete control, like she could handle anything the world threw at her, even if she was frazzled and completely overwhelmed.

He wasn't used to seeing her crack.

"Look, Katherine," Crutchie shuffled up to the girl, offering a smile, "This sucks. A lot. But we can't say we didn't see it comin'." Katherine sniffled, but her eyes were sharp.

"What?"

"It's only been the three of us for a while now. Sooner or later, someone was gonna pull the plug. It was too much for us ta handle alone." Crutchie stated, logically, and the girl bristled.

"We were doing fine. A few more weeks, and we might have had things up and running like they used to be again-"

No; no, they wouldn't have been. As much as they'd been trying to convince themselves that everything would go back to the way it was, that they could handle the paper on their own... Suddenly, Jack felt blind. Of course nobody cared about the opinions of three kids; the teachers couldn't even handle taking an interest in the wellbeing of the student body as a whole, judging by all the fighting and bullying that went on behind the Institute's doors. What were two paperboys and a writer to them? Profit. Business. Trouble.

"They said they were letting us go due to budget cuts. Budget cuts! The nerve! We were hardly even using any funding from the school!" Katherine growled, dismayed.

In that, Jack had to admit, she had a point. Of all the reasons Pulitzer could have used for shutting down the school paper, claiming financial trouble was a pretty shitty excuse.

There was a soft knocking on the door, and all three swivelled in unison, falling quiet. Not that there was any need to- it was no surprise to anybody as to who would be at the door now. There was, after all,  really only one person Jack knew who would ever bother to knock on the door of a broom closet, and that was David Jacobs.

He'd moved to New York with his family two years beforehand, a toothpick of a kid, being tall for his age and about as big around as a twig. A complete contrast to his younger brother, Les, who was spunky, charismatic, and practically a miniature version of Race with blonde hair and a grade three education, Davey was the group mom.  He was the one who made sure the boys were doing their homework, and who drove them to different events in his beat-up minivan if they couldn't find a ride. He was a great friend, and almost a better student, which made it slightly tragic that he was forced to go to such a low-bar school. Had his parents been able to afford it, Davey could have excelled in many higher-academic facilities. His IQ alone definitely made him a fantastic candidate for applying to many of the elite schools Jack had heard of. But with his father unemployed, and his mother struggling to find any more work than a minimum wage part-time job at a local grocery store, his chances had been utterly destroyed.

As had been expected, Davey ducked into the small room, his tall frame momentarily obscuring the doorway as he bent to avoid hitting his head on a low-hanging light fixture. With one quick surveying glance, he seemed to analyze the whole scenario, undoubtedly taking in Katherine's tear streaks, Crutchie's disheartened smile, and Jack gritting his teeth with grim force.

It was Katherine that he approached first though, having identified the one who'd been hurt the most by the recent turn of events.

"Talk about bad news." He mumbled, hugging her. Katherine pulled away from him after a moment, and he gave her a sympathetic smile before standing again, towering over Crutchie, who he went to stand beside.

"So...What do we do now?" Jack finally asked awkwardly, his eyes lingering on the old printer that was apparently, somehow, no longer theirs.

This room... No longer the Newsroom.

No more selling papers during lunch; no more helping Kath come up with funny ideas for the 'Jokes' column...

It was really and truly over.

Davey's expression was one of barely contained surprise.

"Don't you dare tell me you guys are just giving up," he said incredulously, crossing his arms. Crutchie sighed, answering for everyone.

"We don't have any other option, Davey. Pulitzer's pullin' the paper."

"Correction." Davey smirked, pointing his index finger in the air like he always did whenever he got a good idea, "He's pulling the  _school_ paper."

"Yeah, we already clarified that," Katherine remarked, somewhat snarkily. Davey rolled his eyes.

"Kath, you love writing; and this project's been your brainchild for how long? You can't just give that up!"

Katherine visibly soured in even greater aggravation. Her hands shook as she clenched them in her lap, her face growing red again; whether because of another onslaught of tears or just out of frustration, Jack didn't know.

"Well, what am I supposed to do, Davey?! March right up to the man, and demand that he give us our paper back?"

She was fuming now; upset, hurt, confused. Davey stayed silent a moment, waiting for her to calm down. When he finally did speak, Jack was sure he hadn't heard him right.

"Why don't you start your own?"

Jack was stunned; it sounded immature; like something a petulant child would do when they weren't given things their way.

" _What?!_ "

"Start your own paper," Davey repeated, his voice quiet, yet firm, "On your own terms. That way, teachers can't decide the topics and the school can't shut you down for 'financial issues'," Even he looked disgusted by the reasoning behind the club's dismissal, "You wouldn't be using their supplies."

For a split second, Katherine looked like she was considering it; but then her face crumpled again, and she shook her head wearily.

"Davey, it's been months since anyone's been interested in what we had to say- yes, the teachers were choosing the topics, but who's to say we can convince the students to start reading the paper again? To convince them that it's changed?"

Davey bit his bottom lip, alternating between running his hands through his hair and shoving them deep into his pockets. An untempered look had bloomed in his eyes; he was brewing something in that mind of his, Jack knew- he'd seen that piercing, focussed stare a million times over.

Finally, almost at the point when the suspense had become too much, he found his words.

"Did you see that boy from Brooklyn? The one the Delanceys beat up?"

Katherine nodded miserably, sympathy guttering in her own eyes shortly. but clearly not understanding where Davey was heading with this particular idea.

"Every day, more kids are being targeted," He continued, steel weaving it's way into his tone, "Bullies walk through the halls unhindered, more people are showing up with black eyes and broken noses, and humiliated beyond all else. Some have stopped showing up altogether. This place is a mess," He breathed a heavy sigh, inclining his head towards the writer. "What if we could change that?"

Jack hopped down from his filing cabinet, rubbing his temples. When had that become a habit recently?

"Ya' want ta stop bullyin' with a school paper?" It was ambitious, even for Davey; and Jack had absolutely no idea how they'd ever pull it off.

" _Our_ paper," Davey corrected, steepling his fingers, "The kids in this school need a voice; we can give that to them. Interview victims, figure out the numbers; if we can get some publicity for this problem-"

He'd started rambling, but quickly pulled himself back together, sharing an apologetic glance with everyone assembled, "Guys, Pulitzer shutting down the paper is unfortunate, but I've been trying to think of a way to make a difference for months. We need that- our _school_ needs that. And this is an opportunity. If we can find a way to get other students involved, get them invested in the project-"

"Maybe... Maybe others will stand with us," Crutchie concluded softly, hopefully, "Other students...If we all work together... Will they hear us then?"

"It's worth a shot," Davey pressed, "We have to start somewhere; and if the people in charge aren't going to do anything to stop this, then maybe we have to take the reins."

Crutchie and Katherine both nodded, Crutchie looking increasingly more excited, and Kath grinning determinedly.

But Jack still had one concern.

"What's ta stop Pulitzer from pullin' the rug out from under our feet again?" He asked, solemnly, "He finds out we're doin' this, it could be game over before we even start."

"Let him try," Katherine was, surprisingly, the one who answered Jack's inquiry, "I'd like to see what other kinds of nonsense he'd pin on us next time."

Jack chuckled at the sheer ferocity in her eyes,

' _There's our Ace_.'

"From now on," Davey sat back against a card table, whose red cover had been horrendously torn, "We have a new paper, and you guys have one more person on your team." His eyes fell on Jack, who'd been the lone skeptic, "Jack, are you in?"

Jack thought it over, weighed the pros and cons. It would be tricky to keep the paper while directly under Pulitzer's radar- that much he was confident in. The man couldn't stand to lose, and having his own students rebel against him would make their principal livid. Between starting a movement and directly going against his wishes, they were walking a fine, fine line. But on the other hand...

Jack, too, remembered the Brooklyn boy; the one whose jacket was three sizes too big, and the bravery he showed, the steel in his spine as he dared his two attackers to come any closer, to take another swing. He remembered the time Race got detention for fighting two boys at once, all of them being hauled into the principal's office from the school parking lot, while the girl he'd been standing up for hurried white-faced to class, her hands shaking and fumbling her binders. He remembered Kid Blink cussing a blue streak while handling a crying Romeo, trying to ice his bruised cheek and split lip, his good eye flashing with anger and, even worse, his motions devastatingly easy with practice.

Jack glanced up.

"When do we start?"


	5. Home (Spot Conlon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out a bit about Spot's home life and past, and see what happened in regards to the fight from Brooklyn's perspective.

CHAPTER FIVE: HOME

SPOT CONLON

 

His knuckles were still stinging, the rain was biting cold, and for the third time in the past two months, he had no idea where he was going to sleep, or what his next move was going to be.

Trudging down the dirty streets that were overflowing with rainwater and trash, he kept his head down, and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. It was colder than usual for mid-October; in some ways, he was shocked it wasn't snowing. The clouds above mulled darkly as if they hadn't entirely made up their minds about that not being an option. It wouldn't be the first time they'd had snow well before Halloween, and, should the Heavens open up, it for sure wouldn't be the last, either.

Cars flashed by, more than one would expect so late at night, spraying water all over the sidewalk, and probably him- not that he'd feel it. Not that he'd care. Not that he could possibly be more livid than he already was.

Beyond that, what did it matter? He was already soaked through and through.

' _This time it's final,_ ' He thought, bitterly, ignoring the growing ache in his jaw from clenching his teeth, and the fact that his frigid, raw hands had shaken all the way from when he'd first slammed the door on his way out on Plymouth Street. ' _This time, I'm done._ '

He'd said that last time, though, and the time before, and yet...

Twice he'd gone back, the first time willingly. The second time, he'd dragged his heels for a couple more days before he was begged to come home. But no, this time he was finished, and while he had no conceived idea of how he was going to make things work, all he was certain of was that he couldn't go back. Not again. Not to that.

Donnie's face flashed briefly through his mind for a few flickering seconds; a brilliant, proud smile, gleaming eyes, his hair the same midnight black as their father's, curled and so very, very different from his own-

His brother. Or, at least, how his brother had been before he'd wasted his life away in cheap bottles of whiskey, and the kind of drugs that only a fifty dollar bill and a rough street could get you. Inexpensive. Probably laced with all types of fillers that were more dangerous than any of the narcotics he was putting through his system.

' _Asshole_.'

It would be cliche to say he walked until he saw the lights, but, in some ways, that's what he did; caught the (ridiculously sketchy) bus three blocks away from the infamous 'Hattan bridge, and then walked the rest of the way. 

Over the bridge.

Out of Brooklyn.

Away from home.

He hadn't really been planning on where he'd be going, other than out. By the time he'd made it to Manhattan, two o'clock A.M. on a Thursday made his options for finding a place to hunker down seem pretty limited. And yet, fate always had a way of looking out for those who tempted her most, and it didn't take long for his feet to naturally start following the dimly-lit sidewalks out of nothing short of habit.

The neon sign of Jacobi's Diner was a sight for sore eyes and a disguised blessing. What was even more miraculous was that the 'OPEN' sign was still lit up in the doorway.

Stepping through the doors with a silent sigh of relief, Spot Conlon, famed leader of Brooklyn and current vagabond rolled his shoulders, letting the soft sound of classic rock music hit his ears, and the warmth from the old place settle into his bones. The sharp, hard point of anger that he'd carried in his chest eased a little as he finally shrugged off the cold that had trailed him all the way there. Frustration gave way to familiarity as he took in the feel of the old restaurant that had never been home but carried many good memories of when he had one.

Wordlessly, he took off his drenched jacket and hung it on the communal coat rack, putting the mop bucket underneath to catch any water that dripped from it, before taking a seat at the chrome-plated counter.

Jacobi's Diner was a little sandwich shop on the end of the street, designed to look like a 60's diner- and was ancient enough to have probably been one at one point or another. There was a time when Spot could remember coming here with his parents after church on Sundays. It honestly hadn't changed since. There were still the classic retro-style bar stools and the red-cushioned booths. The checkerboard-tile flooring was bold enough to make one dizzy. The old jukebox hadn't stopped sulking in the corner.

This was one tiny speck of his childhood that had, at least, been allowed to remain the same.

"Spottie-Boy! What are you doing out on a night like this?" Spot's head jerked up as Jacobi, the restaurant owner, emerged from the back room, looking very, very surprised at who was seated across from him. Pudgy, red-faced, and an older man with a salt-and-pepper head of hair and impressive moustache, Jacobi had been the owner of the diner for as long as he could remember.

Spot grimaced.

"Family matters." He mumbled, not entirely inclined to delve. Jacobi gave him a pitying look.

"You eaten supper yet, kid?" The teen laughed, humorlessly, laying his stinging hands on the counter to studying the damage he'd done to his fingers, pushing the bandages back a bit. Sure enough, they'd stopped bleeding, but his knuckles were still raw, tender bruises beginning to form around the more sensitive areas. Still, despite the swelling, and the nasty motley of colours that would undoubtedly paint his skin the next few days, he wouldn't have any lasting injuries. No broken fingers, no dislocations, no fractures. The fight had been clean on his end, for the most part, and he'd come out of it with bleeding hands and burning pride.

"Nah," Spot let the bandages settle again, and pushed his wet hair out of his eyes, "I had...Other priorities." He met the deli owner's eyes with an air of bravado and confidence, however weak it might have been at that exact moment, raising his chin slightly.

"Conlons." The man rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. He began fixing him a sandwich, nodding towards his heavily wrapped hands, "Been fighting again, boy?"

Spot felt the sudden urge to hide them under the counter again, but decided against it, shrugging noncommittally.

"How many?"

Of course he'd ask more questions.

"Two."

"Let me guess. The Delancey brothers?"

The Brooklyn leader's eyebrows shot up. "Don't give me that look. The two of 'em came in here earlier today looking like they'd been put through a blender. There's only one boy I know crazy enough to take both of them two on at the same time. And that'd be you." The deli man slid a plate over to the boy, "Eat up, kid. You look like you could use one."

Jacobi passed Spot as he began his sandwich, shaking his head at how ravenously he dug into the thing. "Or maybe two," The man added, pressing a button on the sign on the door to make the bright red lettering flicker out, pulling down the blinds. He took a seat on a barstool next to the boy, resting his elbows on the counter.

"So, what was your reason this time?"

Because there was always a reason.

Jacobi knew Spot well; had known him as a child, and had known him after the streets had taken him in when no aunts, uncles, foster families would. He knew him as, well, a gang leader, young for the shoes he'd had to fill, and he knew the rest of the Brooklyn boys too, each of them by name and face.

Spot glanced over at the man, brewing, calculating.

"Reason for soakin' them, or reason for runnin' off?"

"Whichever one you tell me first."

The boy swallowed his mouthful of sandwich, glaring at his plate. He wasn't one for sharing information; usually, he was reserved and uptight. 

But Jacobi was special- he'd helped Spot when he first made his way onto the streets; had fed him when he and Donny couldn't afford meals and had always been there to chase off the bullies before Spot had discovered his fists. He'd become something of a Grandfather figure to the teen, who'd had the luxury of a family for such a terribly short time.

"They soaked Sparks," he growled, the words hard to force out, "Two on one. Kid's so young, never been in a fight in his life." Jacobi tutted, and Spot frowned, "They're gettin' cockier, Jacobi. They didn't even have a reason to soak him. They just did it 'cause they knew they could, and that they'd get away with it. Pulitzer and the rest? They won't stop 'em."

Spot didn't even want to think of how much worse things could have gone if Bluejay hadn't found Sparks when he had. Keynote had warned everybody that he'd gotten a heads-up from a Manhattan kid- what was his name? Started with an R. Anyways, he'd informed him that the Delanceys were out and looking to spill some Brooklyn blood and that they might want to watch themselves for a couple days. To be honest, Spot hadn't thought much of the potential threat. If those two shitheads wanted to pick a fight, they could choose a time and place, and he'd be there. The same thing went for most of his boys, and while they'd all talked about it, everyone had figured that odds were they'd be going after Dallas, or maybe Scooter and Keynote for mouthing off a few days before.

Nobody had thought that they might need to buddy up Sparks with a better fighter. Nobody had thought he'd be targetted. Not Sparks, who was quiet and shy, and kept his head down. Who helped Thimbles when he was struggling with his science homework, even though the other boy was two years older than him.

No, Sparks wasn't a fighter, and those cards had never been on the table. He wasn't fair game, and the Delanceys had damn well known it- he was fourteen, and half their height, a quarter of their weight, and twice the man that either one of them could ever hope to be, because he hadn't run away when they started throwing punches.

It was Bluejay who'd had a bad feeling and doubled back to look for the boy when he'd been a few minutes late for meeting him and Comanche at a local coffee shop. Nobody else had been even remotely close in range when he'd found him, bleeding out  
in a back lot five streets down from the school, Oscar Delancey still winding up to kick the kid even though he was down.

To say that Spot hadn't held back later when he'd found the two brothers the next day was an understatement. He'd given that brawl everything he had, and then a bit extra, and a ruthless, sinister part of him had enjoyed every moment of it.

But the anger still blistered hot and fuming under his skin.

Jacobi stayed quiet, listening to the boy vent out his frustration.

"And the other reason?"

"Huh?" Spot fell sharply out of his reverie, his eyes undoubtedly blazing, his battered hands complaining as he realized he'd wrapped them into tight fists.

"Why're you out on the street, and walking into a deli shop at two in the morning, eh?"

Spot's eyes drifted to the countertop, and remained there, the half-eaten sandwich now resting on his plate. His appetite shrank away. "C'mon, Patrick. What's going on?"

He shifted uncomfortably at the sound of his real name, something in him whispering that he could stand and fight, push away the emotional toll and dare the old man to bring up his past again, to challenge him then and there.

But then he remembered himself. Where he was. Who he was there with.

And all he managed was a small sigh.

"Donovan kicked me out." He admitted, finally. Jacobi leaned back on his bar stool.

"Again?!" Jacobi's voice was soft and disappointed, awed and not in a good way.

Spot nodded dismally, rubbing at his knuckles again in irritation. The sharp stinging from the many cuts littered across his fingers helped sharpen his resolve, and he quickly reined in his emotions, shoving the anger back in its respective box, and herding up the others to lurk in the corners of his conscience.

"He got mad when I came back late; said if I wasn't out workin' to support us, then I didn't have any reason to be squanderin' time." He ran his fingertips around the rim of his plate, thinking out loud, "As if he cares what I'm out doin' most nights anyway. He was drunk. Always is, but tonight he was in rough shape. Anyways, he chased me out. Had about enough time to grab some more bandages and my coat before I took off." Spot shook his head, "I was walkin' Sparks home. That's why I was late. He should've known that."

His voice was quiet by the end of his statement, surprisingly young and confused, a boy whose brother had turned his back on him, and who had grown up far too fast. It was a rare display of... Humanity from the teen, and it didn't go unnoticed by the older man.

"Why do you even put up with it?" Jacobi asked slowly, after Spot was finished, and had begun picking at his sandwich again, "You could've up and left that place years ago. You're smart enough- you could make it on your own."

"Maybe," the boy took another bite, and regarded Jacobi with a look that told him he'd been over the idea many times in his head, "But then who'd take care of Donnie? He's pissin' his life away, and can't do shit by himself, but he's my older brother, Jacobi. He's the only family I got left, with Ma and Pap gone." The boy finished off his sandwich, licking mayonnaise from his fingers, before shaking his head slowly. "I can't do this anymore, though. I can't. It's tearin' me apart."

Jacobi stared at him a moment, before shaking his head and muttering something incomprehensible.

"I know you don't like asking for help," the man reasoned eventually, gesturing towards the steps that would lead to the upstairs apartment overtop of the diner, "But if you want, you can live in the flat until you get back on your feet. Nobody uses it, now that I live down the way a bit. Consider it a gift."

Spot's eyes flashed, his mask sliding quickly back into place. The momentary softness was gone, replaced by a harsh coldness that didn't belong in someone his age.

"I can't accept that."

"Well, I can't take rent money from a boy with nothing."

Spot thought for a minute, turning his options over in his head, and playing with the sprig of thyme the man had put on his plate as a decal. Eventually, he turned, facing Jacobi, a compromise working its way through his mind.

"I'll take the upstairs room if you let me work for ya'. Ya' won't accept payment, and I won't take a gift. Instead, I'll give ya' labour in exchange for a place to sleep."

Jacobi sighed but seemed to sense that there was no changing the boy's mind.

"Deal," he agreed tiredly, shaking the boy's outstretched hand, and taking his now empty plate, "Now get up there, and get some rest, kid. You have school tomorrow."

The deli manager disappeared behind the swinging doors that led to the kitchens, and Spot slumped in exhaustion as he made his way up the stairs, feeling himself relax for the first time that night.

But one thing the man had said still troubled him. Patrick. He'd called him Patrick.

Something inside him twinged painfully, as though he'd struck a mental nerve. It had been a long time since he'd heard that name.

Pushing the door open to the upstairs apartment, Spot quickly surveyed his new surroundings, observing the kitchenette and small living room, the patchy sofas and the small bedroom with its dark blue duvet cover and curtained window.

The lights in the bathroom flickered and hummed as he turned them on, glaring fiercely at the boy in the mirror, his hands braced on either side of the stained sink.

 Patrick was gone, he reminded himself. That name had died alongside the woman who'd given it to him.

With a growl and a defeated groan, Spot turned on the taps, gingerly unwrapping his hands, and letting the cool water run over his wounds, trying his best to clean them for the first time that day. When the water began to warm, he carefully splashed some of it onto his face, ignoring the droplets that ran like rain past the collar of his shirt when he wasn't quick enough to grab a towel.

And after that...Well, it was just like going through the motions. Re-bandage the scrapes and bruises from that morning, get changed for bed, collect the empty bottles and the takeout dishes, and fall asleep, waiting for whatever challenges the next day would bring.

Except... He had no spare clothes. There were no bottles lying around, or any trash to collect. There wasn't even the sound of Donnie stumbling, cussing, shouting.

Spot left the bathroom, turning off the lights after fumbling his palm across the wall, trying to remember where the light switch was, before crossing the hall to the bedroom again, the small space so different from his living quarters back home. It was quiet, empty.

He could feel the separation from his boys like a sharp pang in his gut. Both other times, when Donovan had lost his temper and gone into a flurry, all but tossing Spot out the door, he'd spent the night at St. Ann's, the abandoned church the Brooklyn gang had claimed as their headquarters long before Spot ever got involved in the group. It wasn't anything impressive; an old stone and wood building that had gone largely forgotten by the rest of the community. While it remained standing as a historical artifact, nobody ever used it anymore. It wasn't so old as to draw in tourists, and it was too run down to be suitable for trying to run any kind of service out of. Still, while the drafts were horrible in the winter, and the stones were always rough and uneven, constantly trying to trip you up underfoot, it was like a second home for most of them. A place to escape to for a while, but not a permanent solution.

Not what he needed.

He hated leaving Brooklyn. It was like a betrayal to the skylines and streets, and to the bridge he'd grown up playing in the shadow of. Manhattan was not, and never would be, his home.

But maybe, for now, this would do.

With that, the boy curled up under the unfamiliar blankets of his new bed, trying to block all thoughts of parents and Donnie and Patrick out of his head-

Because he was Spot Conlon, and he'd find a way to survive on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes- I swear this is all important, I'm not just trying to make Spot's life difficult, mates. Please don't hate me too much.  
> We got to meet some OC's! Or, at least, we learned some of their names. I promise they'll all play a role eventually.
> 
> Onward and upward!
> 
> -Hence


	6. Rallying the Troops (Jack Kelly)

CHAPTER SIX: RALLYING THE TROOPS

JACK KELLY

 

"A newspaper about... _Bullying?"_

The girl across from him smiled cheekily, her grey eyes brimming with amusement, "I never took you for the hippie type, Kelly."

It was, as ever, a quiet day in the library, which made it ideal for a meeting like this. The other tables, littered among the nooks of the bookcases, and in the central walkway of the room remained empty, their chairs scattered as though someone had recently run a herd of cattle through the building without anybody taking notice.

Considering the amount of noise the Institute generally produced, it wasn't an entirely impossible thought.

" _Against_ bullying," Jack grumbled defensively, "And it ain't a hippie movement! Just...Well-"

"Peace and goodwill to all," Whisper finished for him, her smirk growing in size as she daringly leaned back in her chair, causing the two front legs of the seat to hover in the air. Her battered white skater-shoes came to rest sloppily on the table between them as she did so, snapping her bubblegum in expertise.

Following the impromptu meeting they'd had after the assembly, the slightly-larger newspaper crew had begun considering what their best course of action would be going forward. The plan had been to ask around and find more volunteers for actually helping with the article, and Katherine had been the one to suggest trying the Bronx first, as they were, out of all the boroughs, the most laid back.

Jack didn't know Whisper well. Sure, they had a few classes together, on account of being in the same grade and all, but that didn't mean much. The institute was massive, and it was rare for students to make friends outside of their own boroughs. Even Race and Mush, both of them amiable, social sorts, mostly stuck with their boys, not bothering to make friends with anyone who wasn't Manhattan.

To belong somewhere was the key to surviving the Institute. It was a sad state of affairs, but true- if you had a borough, you had a place to sit at lunch, and a corner of the classroom where you could always find a seat with somebody you knew. If you were lucky, you might even have some friends. It was the loners who had the most grief with the bullies- kids who were easy to single out, who didn't have anyone at their back, who had nobody keeping an eye on them to make sure they made it to class or home. Granted, as prior events had concluded, this by no means meant that if you were part of a group, you were completely safe either. But there was a sense of tightknit belonging that came with the title 'Manhattan' or 'Bronx' or 'Brooklyn', or any of the many others, and the students tended to wear them like armour.

In reality, there were only five true boroughs in New York: Brooklyn, Manhattan, the Bronx, Queens, and Staten Island. They'd all grown up hearing about them, had the names practically engraved in their memory from the time they were born. The fact was, nobody cared. There were dozens of boroughs in the Institute beyond the original five. Neighbourhoods like Harlem and Midtown, while within the Manhattan border, identified themselves as separate entities. Flushing considered itself independent from Queens.

All in all, there were almost too many divisions to count, some groups named after single streets in their neighbourhood, and counting upwards of only five or six kids, others closer to forty and more. Manhattan itself had been carved up no different than a pie until most of its larger neighbourhoods had become their own boroughs, Race and Jack only representing a small number of the kids from the district. Brooklyn, on the other hand, held a surprisingly small community of members, despite being mostly unified, but they had a lot of drifters. As far as numbers went, they had maybe twenty permanent bodies at the most, but their lunch tables were always full, sixty students, seventy. Blink had called the flighty students Spot's 'birdies' once; kids that hung around Brooklyn, but didn't want to commit to the rough group, choosing instead to 'fly away' whenever things got heated.

And of course, things got heated often. With armour and labels came reputation. If you were from Brooklyn, you were a knuckle-buster and street gangster. If you were from Queens, you were a damn snake, cunning and sneaky, not to be trusted. Manhattan was full of slackers and punks. The generalizations did nothing but add fuel to unnecessary fires, and rivalries weren't entirely uncommon. Harlem and Brooklyn had been at each others' throats for as long as Jack could remember, their feud having begun on the streets, and flourished in a confined space.

But all of this was why he was extending a hand, first, to the Bronx. Because while he didn't know Whisper, he knew that her borough wasn't near as divided as the rest and that petty rivalries weren't their style. In fact, for the most part, Bronx got along well with all the other boroughs, if not on friendly terms, then at least in neutral ones.

"They may not hold much sway in the grand scheme of things," Katherine had explained when she'd first suggested convincing them to join first, chewing on her lip at the time, "But we need numbers. We can't push this whole thing on our own, and Bronx might be the least likely group to give us trouble."

If they were to find help anywhere, it would hopefully be from Whisper and her motley crew; but so far, Jack hadn't had a single stroke of luck, and it looked like he was about to strike out with the Bronx leader who was mocking him of all things.

"We're giving it a shot." Jack retaliated heatedly, his voice rising, only to be shushed by the ever-present Mrs. Hodge. She shot him a warning look over the brim of her flat glasses that sat crookedly on her squashed nose, giving herself the overall impression of a ruffled bird.

"Keep your voice down in the library!" She hissed, with more zest than he would ever have given her credit for.

Whisper raised her eyebrows, mouthing the words teasingly until the elderly librarian also snapped at her to get her feet off the table.

Jack chuckled quietly and with a small degree of satisfaction as Whisper huffed, rolling her eyes and forcibly kicking her shoes off the table, grumbling as she did so.

"Alright," Whisper sighed, waiting for the old woman to turn away, before running a hand through her messy, dark curls. She kept her voice low. "So just to recap; this isn't a hippie movement, and I'm supposed to be taking you seriously. You want me to help. Why?"

Jack leaned forward in his seat, speaking as quietly as he could manage so as not to draw Mrs. Hodge's attention again.

"We need to branch out; get in touch with people, make some connections, figure out how to distribute the papers better. And," Jack glanced over to make sure the cranky librarian was out of earshot, "We're gonna try to get the other boroughs on board too. We wanna make an impact, Whisp; we wanna force Pulitzer's hand. Make him realize we ain't gonna sit here and take it. Make him act- but we need more people to deal a real blow."

Whisper looked genuinely intrigued now, her expression morphing into something resembling contained havoc. Jack had learned to watch for that look. He'd seen it countless times on numerous different faces; Race when someone challenged him, Jessie when she got an idea, Romeo when he was about to pull a prank. It was a sign of sure trouble; that much, Jack knew for certain.

"You've got my attention," Whisper admitted slowly, crossing her arms, "But think, Jack. If Pulitzer doesn't like this, the whiplash is going to come back on us, and it'll be bad. If he catches wind of what's going on..."

Jack nodded, understanding her concern. He didn't want to bring the wrath of one of the most powerful men in New York down on his boys either; not in a way that would punish them, at least. And, as he was painfully aware, publicly criticizing Pulitzer's Institute, and calling out the inactivity of the teachers working there, would more than likely do the trick.

"That," Whisper continued, frowning, "And every... Well, bully, or whatever it is you're calling them that you draw attention to... They're going to be looking for someone to blame. This idea of yours could go straight sideways." She set her jaw, drawing herself up, likely not realizing that she'd shifted into a defensive pose, "You do this wrong, and a lot more people could get hurt, Cowboy."

"I know," Jack replied, his head aching from all his whirling thoughts. He'd been through most of these details himself by now and thought of every possible worst-case scenario. He wasn't a fool. There was a lot on the line; a precarious, thin line. And yet, despite his still lingering misgivings, he swallowed down his pestering doubts, and raised his gaze, "But we can't just sit back and do nothing. There are too many people needin' help; I've gotta take the risk. This is a start- are ya' in or out?"

Whisper studied the boy carefully, looking hesitant to commit. There was a fire in her eyes, a gleam that let Jack know she hadn't completely dismissed his proposal yet, and he risked allowing a bit of hope kindle in his chest. She wanted change; they all wanted change.

It would be a gutsy move; as silly as one little newspaper sounded, as silly as the _fear_ sounded, it would take some nerve. Pulitzer had been right when he'd reminded the students that their education was free, and as terrible as the environment of the school was, at least they would get a diploma when they finally walked out the door for the last time. Heck, Jack wasn't that far away from getting away from the Institute for good himself. Making Pulitzer angry, choosing to do this...

In the grand scheme of things, Jack supposed, the worst that could happen for most of the kids involved would be even worse bullying, or, God forbid, expulsion. Most of them couldn't afford to go anywhere else; it was the Institute or bust.

It wasn't surprising that finding volunteers was becoming obscenely hard.

Whisper snapped her gum once, twice, and then grimaced, her fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of her chair. Finally, she leaned back in her seat, casually spitting out her gum in the nearby trash bin, and looking Jack dead in the eye, all business.

"I'm not saying anything for the Bronx," She said, slowly, "I'll bring it up; let them choose if they want to pick this fight or not. Some of them have a chip on their shoulder with certain people in this school, and I don't want to see any of them get hurt over some stupid paper."

Jack nodded, feeling his heart sink. It was what he had expected, to be frank, but hearing Whisper voice his own fear aloud was disheartening.

Her next words shocked him beyond all belief.

"But I'm game," Grey eyes flashed as the met his, angry and determined, "I agree; if the adults in charge aren't going to do anything about this, then it's time we take matters into our own hands." Whisper shook her head, rising to her feet, "We're past the point of anybody else coming in to save us. I'll join your team, Kelly, if you're serious about pulling this off."

Jack brushed his hands off on his jeans, a smile working its way across his face.

"We're having a meeting in the Newsroom tomorrow after school. You'll be there?"

Whisper nodded once in affirmation, slung her backpack over her right shoulder, then, offering nothing but a jerk of her chin in his direction as a goodbye, quickly walked away, aiming to hit the hallways before the upcoming bell would flood them with students.

Jack fumbled his hands into his pockets, searching for his phone. When he'd finally located the device, he pulled up Davey's contact, his fingers working at light-speed on the electronic keys.

**'W's with us, gonna ask Bronx'**

It wasn't much of a lead; they were still going to need more people, and the odds were horrendously stacked against them. But as he left the library, feeling triumphant, Jack had only one thing on his mind:

Now they were getting somewhere.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaannnnnnddddd there's chapter six! Please feel free to shoot me a message if you need me to elaborate on the borough system for the story- I tried to write it so it made sense, but if you need clarification, please ask (I know what I'm trying to express, but sometimes my explanations can use a bit of work)!
> 
> I created a tumblr account! If any of you are genuinely interested in seeing any of my art/potential tidbits about and for this work, I go by HenceComesAutumn on that account too. There's literally nothing but a drawing of Cruchie posted there at the moment, so I'm not entirely sure it's worth your time, but I figured I'd give a heads-up anyway.
> 
> Lastly, thanks to TheFifthPevensieChild, Demigod_with_dream, and the anonymous guest who left kudos since the last update! Those of you who have been commenting and bookmarking this work have a special place in my heart as well. Your support has been phenomenal.
> 
> Onward and upward!
> 
> -Hence


	7. Back to Square One (Davey Jacobs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a chapter from Davey's perspective, and it's about damn time.

CHAPTER SEVEN- 

DAVEY JACOBS

 

Davey Jacobs loved chemistry. _Loved_ it. With all his heart and soul.

When he was ten, his parents had bought him one of those fake lab experiment kits for his birthday. It was nothing more than the classic baking soda volcano, but at the time, he'd been mystified. How on earth could a simple white powder (so common that his mother had some in her baking pantry) and a bit of vinegar create such a reaction? How was it possible?!

As he grew older, and the more he studied the topic, the more he began to understand. And the more he began to understand, the more he began to enjoy it.

Chemistry was like magic; all the things you could achieve with just a few chemicals, a few elements, mixing this solution with that one... The possibilities were endless, as were the combinations, and better yet, everything could be explained. After all, as was the way with science, nothing was truly as magic as it appeared.

It was chemistry that had sparked his interest in biology, and his profound love for both subjects that had caused his heart to be set on becoming a doctor. Hours watching videos online about what to do in the case of different emergencies, EMT training during the summer, stacks of notebooks and journals full of research and information he'd found and collected over the years...

Looking back on it, he could have explained every single step for that little volcano experiment. Scratch that- he could have explained it backwards and in his sleep. But part of that wonder, part of that mystified thrill he'd felt when he'd first become enraptured in the marvel that was science, he'd never really lost.

"Epinephrine; it's a stimulative hormone in the human body that is used as a neurotransmitter in the synapse between neurons, helping fire action potentials," Davey explained clearly, answering his teacher's question with tact and precision, "It's also referred to as adrenaline, produced by the adrenal glands, and released into the bloodstream in times of distress to elevate heart and breathing rate, among other things."

"Correct- as usual," Mr. Yorik smiled warmly, the last part added as an afterthought. He turned to continue teaching the lesson, facing the board, and not catching Mush rolling his eyes and wryly mouthing the words _'teacher's pet'_ to the rather obvious class favourite.

Davey shrugged helplessly in response, stifling a laugh when Mush made a face, before snapping quickly to attention as the teacher moved to face his class yet again.

"Mister Higgins? Which chemical formula did you study?"

Davey looked over in time to catch Race jolt upwards in his seat, startled, halfway through sketching a rough caricature onto his binder.

It was... Strange to have the other boy in a class with him. Strange, but not unpleasant. He was used to spending time with Mush outside of school, both of them having been on the debate team, and had always enjoyed the easygoing boy's company. This had probably made the transition into a grade eleven/twelve split class with him a bit easier, as it didn't feel weird to have him around. But Race had always been in the grade below him as well, and they'd never spent near as much time bonding. He was finding that he quite liked Race, though, despite (and maybe even for) his many quirks.

"Formula? Oh, um, caffeine." Race appeared to be racking his brains as he hastily took a sip out of his coffee cup. No doubt he'd come up with his compound on the fly and was just playing off the cuff, "It's a stimulant. Abundant in coffee beans."

He took another swig of his drink, carefully avoiding Yorik's sour glare.

"And have you any idea what the chemical formula of caffeine is, Mister Higgins?"

Race raised his eyebrows a moment, before bringing the cup close to his face, studying the ingredients list. The rest of the class began to laugh as they caught on, Yorik's face turning an unsightly shade of red as he waited.

"No sir," Race decided, eventually, his tone joking, "They don't list the formula name for any of their ingredients in the nutritional facts."

Yorik sighed, rubbing at his eyes, before writing _'Anthony Higgins'_ in the upper right corner of his chalkboard; the place where he always wrote the names of students he wanted to stay behind after class.

Race swore under his breath, fortunately quiet enough that the teacher couldn't hear.

Davey shot him a sympathetic smile, knowing he'd need to mark off another day on his calendar to help tutor the other boy. The problem with Racetrack wasn't necessarily his intelligence; it was his attention span, and the minuscule amount of time he ever had to offer before he was being whisked away into something else. Trying to keep his focus was like trying to keep an excited dog from chasing a squirrel... A squirrel with a drumstick tied to its tail.

Mr. Yorik began handing out assignments, going into his usual lecture about how, while the sheet was to be completed as group work, each paper should have individual answers.

"Plagiarism is never the correct answer," He informed them all for what must have been the twelfth time at least, "Do you know where copying will get you when you're in university?"

 _'Out the front door!'_ Mush mouthed again, in a perfect pantomime of the older man, his face drawn into a crotchety frown. Davey choked on a laugh, quickly turning the action into a hacking cough.

"Out the front door!" Yorik exclaimed, casting a glare on each student. He made sure to meet their eyes one by one. "There are no second chances in post-secondary, ladies and gentlemen. If they catch you cheating, you can kiss your chance of graduating, and your money, goodbye."

One of the students sitting in the back of the room piped up; a tall boy from Queens, Davey remembered... His name evaded him, though.

"So what I'm gettin' outta this is... University's full of crooks worse than ya', so don't take chances," He drawled cheerfully, grinning at the teacher, "And just... Don't go?"

Yorik rolled his eyes, and grumbled to himself, before writing another name up on the board.

_'Frank Collins'_

Right; Frank. He went by Colt, though, Davey recalled; it was confusing, how everybody at the school had one name on an attendance sheet, and another name they went by for students. Why all of them even _had_ nicknames, he didn't understand.

Frank-Colt huffed, and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. Davey didn't know him well, but he always seemed friendly- well, to the other students at least. He often showed a forked tongue whenever adults were around. He had mutual respect for the other boy if nothing else.

As Yorik began a new lecture, Davey started scanning the assignment that had made its way into his hands. It was an easy enough worksheet; most of the questions were things they'd learned directly in class, and the others, he knew, would be in their textbooks.

"If that's quite enough," Mr. Yorik finished, evidently put out with the behaviour of his class, "You may begin!"

It took the class about seven seconds to neatly divide itself into its standard groups; the teams were regular, and more often than not, the people involved in each group stayed the same every time.

Davey maneuvered himself out of his desk, making his way over to Mush and Race, the latter of which was still grumbling about his detention.

"Looks like you're in charge of makin' supper tonight," He sighed to the other boy, who grimaced slightly. Mush was no cook, and all of them knew it, "There's pasta in the cupboard. Get Snipes to show you how to make spaghetti."

"What about Buttons? I'm guessing spaghetti isn't vegetarian savvy?"

"Already taken care of; he's got leftovers in the fridge from yesterday. Just have him heat 'em up."

Davey cleared his throat as he approached, breaking up the boy's conversation as he placed the assignment on the desk between the three of them.

Before he could call their attention to the project, however, there was a small disturbance in class; a disturbance by the name of Jack Kelly, who came racing into the chemistry room as though the Devil himself had chased him there. Even from where Davey was standing, the other boy looked a mess; he was out of breath, the shoelaces on his left sneaker were undone and practically begging to trip him up, and from what Davey could tell, he'd brought the wrong binder.

"Mister Kelly," Yorik grumbled, with a profound essence of disgust, "Tardy yet again?"

"I was busy, sir."

"Not busy with your studies, obviously- else you'd have _been here on time_."

Jack opened his mouth to make some snarky retort, but Yorik cut him to the chase, telling him to find his group and get to work before he found himself in detention as well.

Jack rolled his eyes as soon as the man's back was turned, his gaze scanning the room feverishly until he spotted Davey in amongst the other students, his eyes lighting up.

Despite the teacher's warning about getting to work, Jack dropped all of his things off at his assigned desk, before careening towards Davey's group, Mush and Race putting an end to their picked-up bickering as they too caught Jack's excited expression.

"Uh-oh," Race muttered, and Mush visibly cringed beside him. Davey raised an eyebrow, curious.

"'Uh-oh'? 'Uh-oh' what?"

"He's got his 'I-did-something' face on. That's almost never a good sign."

"Did you get my message?" Jack was out of breath, but a grin was spreading across his face. Davey shook his head slowly, and Jack's smile froze, before he let out an impatient sigh, "Of course you didn't. I forgot you never check your phone in class."

Race snickered behind a raised hand, but Davey's rebuttal was immediate.

"My mom would _kill_ me if I got my phone taken away for that!" He retaliated, while simultaneously fishing the device out of his back pocket, and trying to shield it from view of the teacher who'd retreated back to his desk.

"Right; he's got a mother. I was thinkin' about gettin' me one of them." Race drawled sarcastically, and Davey ignored him, reading through Jack's text. He glanced up sharply.

"Whisper's in?"

"She's in," Jack confirmed, hurriedly, "And she's gonna try to get the rest of Bronx in with her."

Davey held back a whoop and settled for swapping ecstatic smiles with Jack, quickly shoving his phone back into his pocket. It was a victory; a small victory, yes, but still a triumph.

If they could get the Bronx...

"I hate to break up the unconditional happiness in the air," Mush intervened eventually, looking very much confused, "But what the heck is goin' on?"

Davey and Jack both exchanged a look for a long, steady moment, neither one of them seeming to be entirely sure as to who was supposed to take the leadership role in this scenario. To be honest, Davey wasn't entirely sure he _wanted_ to be recognized as the leader of their little rebellion; he was the brain, the planner. Yes, it had been his idea, but rallying the troops and marching soldiers into war seemed more Jack's style than his.

With that in mind, the teen waved for his friend to step up and explain, Jack flashing another one of those bright grins, before turning to Race and Mush, debriefing them quickly. Davey caught himself waiting for the other boys' reactions on bated breath, hoping that their impression would be a good one. He was confident that what they were doing was right, but his friends still meant a lot to him, and their approval would be much appreciated.

Mush whistled lowly when Jack finished, Race just staring at him wordlessly.

"Ya' goin' up against Pulitzer? That's a gutsy move, Jack."

Race still stayed quiet, making Davey worry somewhat. He wasn't entirely sure whether rendering the smart-mouth speechless was a good or bad sign; in fact, pure silence from Race might have been a new experience for the teen, who realized as long as he'd known the other boy, he'd always had a saucy remark or comment close at hand.

"Maybe," Jack conceded, apparently not noticing the sudden difference in Race's usually snappy personality, his eyes bright, "But just think- if we can get enough people backin' us up...Well, who's to say we can't make a change?"

Davey's heart leaped a bit as Mush made a noise of consideration, a small smile creeping across his face as he crossed his arms- but his hopes were quickly dashed.

"Ya' guys are nuts," Race muttered, keeping his voice quiet so Yorik wouldn't hear, "This is ya' last year before getting out of this place for good, and ya' want to risk screwin' that up?"

There was bitterness and incredulity in his tone; frustration with them, Davey realized as Race continued, "Don't get me wrong, the whole gettin' the crap kicked out of ya' every second day part sucks," His eyes flashed, "But this is the only chance at a diploma that I know I, for one, will ever get a shot at. I've already been threatened with expulsion, Jack," He shook his head, clenching his fists at his sides, "My neck's been on the line for years now, and I'm not riskin' my only shot at graduatin' on some crazy anti-bullyin' campaign or whatever this is- and ya' shouldn't either."

Davey felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Even Mush looked surprised with his friend, staring at him as if he'd just smacked him between the eyes with a rubber boot.

It was Jack who bounced back from the lash first, his eyes narrowed.

"So, what?" He asked, venom dripping from every word, his excitement seeming to have entirely melted away, "Ya'd rather deal with broken noses and black eyes for the rest of ya' time here? Keep ya' head ducked like a coward? What about the other kids, Race? Remember Brooklyn?"

Something shuttered in Race's eyes, like a door slamming shut. He drew himself up to his full height, meeting the other boy's glare head on, basically blazing with indignation. Davey inwardly winced, uncomfortable at the route this conversation had taken, and Mush shuffled his feet awkwardly, clearly thinking the same thing.

"Yeah, I remember Brooklyn," He growled, "And _Brooklyn_ took care of the problem. Just like the rest of us have to; by stickin' to our guns and dealin' with it ourselves- not draggin' the whole school into it, Jack." He took a step away, his expression still sharp, "If I have to roll with the punches for the next year to get a diploma sayin' I'm done with this place for good, then I'll do it."

With that, he snatched the assignment they'd been given, and read the first question, his lips puckering, as if he had a lemon in his mouth. "Now, who knows what the chemical formula for sucrose is," Race looked pointedly up at Jack, the conversation clearly over as he added, "Because I've already got one detention, and I'm not takin' another one if we don't get this done."

Nobody reached out to stop him as Jack stormed off, anger written clear as day across his face.

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iF YOUR FAVE IS PROBLEMATIC AND YOU KNOW IT, CLAP YOUR HANDS *CLAP CLAP*  
> I love Race with all my heart, but BOI. He's got a valid point, though.
> 
> Onward and upward!
> 
> -Hence


	8. Playing Your Cards (Race)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out the full reason as to why Race is reluctant to get involved in the movement, and friends are found in convenient places.

CHAPTER EIGHT: PLAYING YOUR CARDS

RACETRACK HIGGINS

 

It was the day after he turned fourteen that Jack Kelly had been locked in the Refuge.

He remembered that day; coming home from school, and finding Crutchie sobbing in the boys' room of Ms. Cardinal's Lodging House, frantic and shaking, Mush already there with an arm slung over the kid's shoulders. He'd glanced over to Race with a dead look in his eyes- a look that said everything and nothing all at once.

Something had gone horrendously wrong.

It was only later that he found out, and all the while he couldn't wrap his mind around it. _Jack_. Jack Kelly.

The Refuge.

Every child who'd ever been on the street, or close to it, or lived in the slums knew the place to be a nightmare. You didn't have to have been there to know; the house with the iron gates and the barred windows and stained bricks ate boys' souls and dreams like sweets, or so they claimed. Regardless of whatever stories proved to be true or false, Race had known at least one thing for certain at the time, and it was that nobody who went in ever came out the same.

When Jack had finally been freed after a six-month sentence that was supposed to be a year, but had been brought down thanks to Kloppman's begging and persuasion, Race had noticed that change in him the moment he'd walked out the large oak doors. There was something in him that had shattered a little bit, and he was just barely holding the hairline fractures together.

Race had never been to the Refuge- well, at least not in it, anyway. There wasn't a person he knew that hadn't walked past the old building at one point or another and felt a rancid, icy chill run its knuckles down their spine. It was the Monster House of Manhattan, and that was really all the warning you needed to steer clear of the place.

And yet, the feisty boy from Ms. Cardinal's Lodging House for Young Unfortunates had more cause than most to fear Warden Sneider's Lodging House for Young Delinquents.

He hadn't been kidding when he'd told Jack he was on his last straw with Pulitzer. For a man with little patience to begin with, he'd run out of leash to give the snarky kid with a penchant for tumbling headfirst into trouble's lap, and had finally called him into his office not even two months beforehand. Receiving a personal invitation to the Principal's office could only ever mean one of two things for a boy like Racetrack Higgins: accolades or punishment. He'd known right off the bat which one he was there for, even before sitting down.

He'd been anticipating a speech, heated words with little meaning or effect, and a great deal of griping from the greying man. A lecture would've been commonplace, a raised voice a nice spice for the mix. What he hadn't anticipated was the neatly stapled packet of official papers lying stiff as a body in a casket in a manila folder, his name- his real name- printed cleanly across the tab.

And those papers...Well, one stack was a legal document for expulsion from the school, his name typed into the allotted spaces and everything. Anthony Higgins. Anthony Higgins. Anthony Higgins. Seeing it repeated so many times on that bright white sheet in size twelve Times New Roman was enough to make his eyes ache, and his mind go as dry and fuzzy as his mouth. All the package required was a date and a signature from one Mister Pulitzer himself, he was informed, and Race's chances of achieving a high school diploma would have been more or less dashed.

It was the other paper that made his blood curdle and then freeze in his veins.

'RECOMMENDATION OF IMMEDIATE REHABILITATION: ANTHONY HIGGINS'

Pulitzer hadn't said a word as he'd slid this particular document right in front of the boy, undoubtedly catching how quickly the colour had drained from his face.

The last time he'd seen one of these letters had been two days after Jack's sudden arrest and establishment in the Refuge. Kloppman had left his copy of the letter on the coffee table, tossed there in frustration as he tried to get a hold of Medda, because, " _Shit_ , there's got to be something we can do- he's just a _kid_ , and he was doing so much better, and this will destroy him-".

And Race had read that damned letter. Read it, and remembered everything it said.

So somehow, seeing the same page in front of his face more than three years later had seemed like a nightmarish sense of deja vu. Despite knowing what it had entailed, he'd read it in full, not really absorbing any of the words past the nasty shock that still made wasps crawl in his stomach.

This letter was signed; signed, and ready to be sent off at a moment's notice. And, Race knew, with the suspicion coming from Pulitzer, there wasn't a single judge in Manhattan who would bat an eyelash at the request. Not for a foster kid from the slums, at least. Pulitzer had most of the city under his thumb, if not New York as a whole. He wouldn't stand a chance in any court he was tossed into.

That being clear, Pulitzer had taken the folder, closed it, and straightened his tie, looking Race in the eyes.

"You're walking on thin ice, boy."

One more chance. He'd have one last chance to save himself, and try to keep his head above the water-

But one more mistake...

Race shuddered involuntarily to himself, the calculator in his left hand trembling slightly with the action, as though sharing his unease, the pencil in his right tapping frantically on the desktop, keeping time for his racing heart. A solitary glance at the clock on the far wall assured him that, with it being twelve fourteen in the morning, another day had passed without him facing the gallows, but the fact was hardly a comforting one.

Jack undoubtedly wanted his help; he'd seen the almost immediate bolt of hurt that had struck his face like a slap when Race had shot down his ideas about this...Anti-bullying campaign, or whatever the heck it was that he and Davey were concocting. Katherine too, he reminded himself, guilt lancing in his chest at the thought of leaving all three of them to hang on their own. Loyalty was strong between the foster boys; when you really had nothing, it was your bonds with others that you valued more than anything else. And yet...

Race sighed as he surveyed the scattered mess of paper all across the desk, the opened envelopes sitting uselessly in the wastebasket, the numbers all jumping out at him from every angle-

"Still up?"

Race bashed his knee straight up into the underside of the desk in fright, having been so immersed in his work that he hadn't noticed a figure coming to stand in the doorway of the small office. Granted, the lighting was terrible, so he couldn't be blamed for not having seen them earlier, and the peeling sheets of wallpaper (with the gaudiest flowers conceivable) that dressed the room from head to foot would have blinded anyone.

"If I wasn't, I am now." Race grimaced, rubbing his sore knee, and grimacing in response to Mush's unabashed grin. The taller boy didn't say a word as he set a steaming mug of coffee down in front of his friend, cradling his own cup in his hands, and perching easily on the corner of the desk. He let out a low whistle, reading some of the sheets, and mentally adding the numbers. Unlike Race, Mush was highly adept at math; a hidden talent that very few knew about, and that he very rarely showed.

'He should be doing this- not me.' Race grumbled internally, setting down the calculator with a small feeling of helpless defeat.

"Shoot." He managed eventually, tan skin wrinkling across his forehead as he sighed loudly, suddenly looking older than his age, much the same as Race was sure he probably looked as well. "Gotta love bills."

He and Mush had taken over dealing with Ms. Cardinal's finances over a year ago. The ageing, ancient specimen that she was, she really shouldn't still have had any kind of legal guardianship over the boys in her 'care'. Most days, it was a miracle to see her at all beyond the typical once or twice a day when she would come across one of the boys and ask where her glasses had gone (they were usually located on her head), or when Henry would be home (Henry being her late husband who had died fifteen years ago). In truth, the two oldest teens had been running everything for a while, but it was kept quiet. Nobody wanted to think of what would happen to the group, should the elderly matron be deemed unfit to run her old home as a Lodging House anymore.

"They've increased the water payment." Race muttered, tossing a sheaf of papers onto the polished hardwood, "We still haven't got groceries yet either."

Mush shook his head, suddenly tired, and looking washed out. He'd just come back from a late shift, Race knew, and was more than surprised that the boy had managed to stay awake so long. But the other teen simply took a moment to take a long, deep sip of his coffee, his eyes closed in the enjoyment of the warm beverage, despite how watered down it was. Remembering his manners, Race took a hurried sip of his coffee as well, a small knot unravelling somewhere in his head as he realized that Mush had made it exactly the way he usually made his coffee in the mornings before heading to school.

"I've got another paycheck comin' from Carson's in five days," He opened his eyes, calculating, "That should be enough to cover the groceries at least. And we should have some allowance cash comin' in from the system soon."

Ms. Cardinal was sent a small sum each month per each boy that she'd taken into her care, intended to help support herself and the children. But, Race thought, more than a trifle bitterly, it was hard to make the money last when your caretaker was too old to work, and your expenses kept travelling up a steady incline.

Race sighed through his nose, and tugged at his hair, wanting nothing more than to turn out the lights and sleep the day away; not to mention procrastinate dealing with the mess that was laid out before them.

"We can't keep dippin' into ya' paychecks, Mush," He growled, frustrated, "Ya' supposed to be savin' that money for Sunny." He met the other boy's stubborn look with one of his own, biting his cheek as a reminder to keep his voice down. Everyone else would be asleep at this point; or, at least, they were supposed to be, but he didn't want to risk waking anyone up.

"I can handle it." Mush pressed, and Race's temper flared.

"Ya' shouldn't _have_ to!" He hissed, seeming to take his friend by surprise. Every pent-up emotion that the smaller boy had been feeling came rushing out in a staggering wave as he began to rant, his accent becoming heavier and heavier as he continued. "Ya' seventeen, ya' got a hard enough life as it is- heck, we all do, and I'm sick of it! Sick of scrapin' up money just ta get by, and havin' ta add more water ta the pot just ta make sure everyone can eat, and dealin' with patchin' up kids every night, and-"

"Race." Mush set down his mug, and cut off his friend with a single word, gripping his shoulders firmly, as if to ground him again, "Breathe."

Race glowered for a few moments longer before caving, slouching in his chair, the furious air having been driven out of him. He wanted an actual strong coffee, and a full night's sleep, and a lit cigarette in his hand.

"We're gonna be okay." Mush continued, drawing back, only to gather up all the papers, looking over each in turn, "...But this ain't just about the money, is it?"

There was a knowing look in Mush's eye as he glanced at his friend over the sheaf of papers in his hands. Looking calmer than was probably warranted, given the startling amount of red ink, he nodded once, before putting them aside.

Of course Mush knew. He always seemed to know what was going through Race's head.

"This...Idea of Jack and Davey's has got ya' pinned up too." Mush evaluated carefully, waiting for Race's reaction. When the other boy let out a rattling sigh, admitting defeat, Mush continued, "What's wrong?"

"What _isn't?"_ Race groaned, rubbing at his eyes, "I'm lettin' down a friend, Mush, but I can't just jump on board with this. If they had any sense, they wouldn't be either."

Mush nodded in thought, studying his friend before staring into his coffee, looking for the answers to the universe in the clearly watered-down brew. It was a bit strange seeing him be so pensive.

"You're on Pulitzer's hit list," The boy glanced up, his accent slackening significantly as he spoke. It had become a habit, through years of education, that when speaking to Pulitzer, the standard New-York-Drawl that most of the foster kids had adopted was to disappear. Mush, in his sleep-deprived state, had fallen back into the trick instinctively as soon as he so much as thought of their principal. He amended himself quickly, though, throwing his slurs back together even heavier than usual as a small act of rebellion, "That's what this is about, right?"

"Nailed it on the head."

Mush nodded to himself once more, running a thumb across his bottom lip, setting his jaw.

"They've got a point, though. We can't just let this keep goin' on, Race. Nobody's gonna take a stand for us; we gotta do it ourselves."

Race's automatic response was to shoot back a spiteful retort, somewhat hurt by the fact that his best friend didn't seem to have his back; but Mush knew him well. He talked over the shorter boy before he had a chance to start running his mouth.

"There are other ways to help other than tossin' yaself into the line of fire," Mush insisted, trying to sound convincing. Race's eyes narrowed, "C'mon, Race. They're our friends; we can't just do nothin'."

The strings suspending Race's heart tugged sharply, shooting sparks of pain in his chest. He glared suspiciously at Mush for one second, then two, then three, at war with himself.

Did nobody know how to take 'no' for an answer?!

"What are ya' thinkin'?" He asked flatly, more than slightly suspicious. Mush set his mug, now cold, on the desktop, undoubtedly leaving coffee rings on the bills. Then, he readjusted his position on the desk himself, and rubbed at his neck, and ran a thumb over his lip again-

"Stop stallin'," Race rolled his eyes, and Mush smiled, a little guiltily, "Spit it out already."

The boy crossed his arms and took a deep breath.

"Ya've got connections, Race. Connections that Jack and Davey and Katherine just don't have. Yeah, maybe they can sweet-talk Bronx, but all things considered, Whisper's not high on the totem pole. Hearin' that her group might join the ranks ain't gonna mean jack ta anybody else."

Race snorted, mimicking Mush's pose, and leaning back in his chair. It was true that while Whisper's motley crew might add to the numbers, the Bronx wasn't the kind of borough that anyone held in high esteem. They were the omegas of the pack; the outcasts and the stragglers. Race had nothing against them, per se, but truthfully, they didn't hold much weight in the unfortunate, but very real, hierarchy of the school pecking order.

"And ya' want me ta do what exactly? Go chat with the almighty Spot Conlon himself?" Race joked sarcastically, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. At Mush's raised eyebrow and expressive silence, Race's humour faded, a startling realization setting in, "Wait; are ya' serious?! Ya' want me ta waltz up ta the freakin' King of Brooklyn and ask him ta help out with some...Campaign?"

"Race," Mush snapped, equally irritated at this point, "Think, would ya? They're graspin' at straws, and they need somebody who'll inspire others ta join the movement. Brooklyn's got that power-"

"Yeah," Race spat, bristling, "And the power ta break my nose as well!"

Mush's eyes were blazing in the dim light, his entire body tense as he stooped stiffly on the desk, his gaze piercing. His counterpart drew himself up in indignation, refusing to feel belittled. For a few tense seconds, nothing but silence filled the room. Then-

"They would take a stand for us," Mush snarled softly, the aggression radiating off of him a rare sight to behold, "They _are_ takin' a stand for us. And they're the only ones puttin' their necks out on the line."

The sheer amount of disdain in his best friend's voice was enough to cause Race's stomach to drop. He felt his glare waver, then his shoulders slump, then the sigh that rattled his entire body, all in that exact order, his resilience crumbling.

'No more difficult than Joshua and Jericho.' He thought, a trifle bitterly, before raising his gaze to meet Mush's once again, resigned.

The other teen caught his friend's close surrender, and lunged for victory, driving his point home.

"Ya' don't even have to necessarily talk to Spot," He cajoled, voice gentler than before, "Just put the bug in his ear. Ya' play poker all the time with the Brooklyn boys; there's gotta be at least one of them that ya' could get ta relay a message."

Saying that Race played poker 'all the time' with the Brooklyn boys was a massive overstatement. He'd joined them for a round maybe four times in his life, and all four times had been remarkably short-lived and coupled with very little conversation.

Still, it couldn't be denied that Race was a boy who had friends in low places; or, in this case, friends in convenient places. And it also couldn't be denied that Mush was right about one thing; there was one of them that he trusted and knew better than all the rest; and who might just be willing to pass on a tidbit of news.

Race let out one last sigh, using the last of his energy to shoot the boy across from him the worst glare he could scrape together.

"I hate ya' sometimes." He grumbled, and Mush grinned brightly, knowing that he'd won him over.

"No ya' don't." He responded chipperly, downing the rest of his coffee, and hopping off the desk, stretching like a cat, and smirking like the one who'd caught the canary, "I'm goin' ta bed. Great talk."

"Get outta here." Race muttered, ignoring Mush's laugh as he padded down the dark hallway, leaving the exasperated boy alone in the company of the flickering lights and fading wallpaper.

He was already asleep in bed by the time a slim figure slipped out the front door and into the street, the only indication of their person being the smouldering embers of their cigarette as they faded into the night-time background of Manhattan, New York.

\----------------------------------

In all aspects, he wasn't a McDonald's kind of person, but the city was dark, his stomach was growling, and the restaurant was the only open-twenty-four-hours building within five blocks.

Keynote picked at his burger as he waited in the small booth table, checking his cheap phone for recent messages, and zipping up his worn leather jacket as the air conditioning kicked in again. It took every ounce of discipline he possessed not to focus on the stains on the seat across from him that he hoped beyond hope were merely from ketchup and nothing else. Disgusting.

As was customary at one-thirty in the morning on a Thursday, he was the only one in the dingy fast food drive-in-dive, aside from the overly judgemental cashier who kept throwing ridiculously skeptical looks his way every three and a half minutes, as if they fully expected him to up and rob their entire store of McNuggets at gunpoint.

He debated having a bit of fun with the man, such as asking where they kept their frozen bags of fries, and whether or not it would be theoretically plausible for a person to stuff twelve unbought burgers in their pockets and make away with them, but he reined himself in. Spot would have a bird if he found out he'd been causing trouble in another borough, even if it were just at a McDonalds in Manhattan, and he didn't feel like taking on his leader's wrath.

Fortunately, the door swung open before he could be entirely tempted by boredom to do anything too stupid, and he shot a mischevious grin at the familiar figure making his way across the restaurant, blatantly ignoring the equally suspicious glare pointed at his own back.

"Meeting in secret like this is so unlike ya', Race the Ace," Keynote smirked easily, leaning back as the other boy took a seat, "And in the wee hours of the mornin', too? Very mysterious, very 'James Bond'-"

"Oh, shut up," Race groaned, ruffling his dark hair with one hand, and snagging a fry off of the Brooklyn boy's tray, "It's been a rough enough day as it is without ya' hecklin' me too."

Keynote's smirk doubled in size, but he dropped the teasing. He could sense that this, unlike most of their usual meet-ups, wasn't a social call. Race confirmed his assumptions as he snagged another fry, and then leaned on the table, his arms crossed. Keynote could smell cigarette smoke on him; a sure sign that he'd been anxious about something over the last hour or two, as he only ever reached for a stick when his nerves were high.

"Keys, I need ta ask a favour," He began, grudgingly, his tone slightly bitter. Keynote raised his eyebrows, his mild expression of surprise only growing as Race added, "For a couple friends."

There was a brief pause of silence between the two as the statement hung in the air, waiting for a reply.

Keynote knew Race; they'd become friends over the card table, and had known each other for years. He trusted the Manhattener like a member of his own borough, and not once had he ever questioned his loyalty- but they'd never been the type to ask things of the other before. After all, they might have been friends, but they were both tied to their respective groups more than to each other. This was new, unfamiliar territory, Keynote hadn't really been prepared to take the first step.

But, then again, hadn't it been Race who'd tipped him off about the Delanceys? He could just as easily have let the whole thing slide, but he found him and told him everything, and Keynote told Spot, and Spot told the boys, and the boys never lost their swagger, their confidence, until Bluejay dragged Sparks in looking nothing short of dead. And even when he had, when an unearthly silence had spilled over the assembled group, all of them horrified and immediately up in arms, Keynote had thought, "He tried to warn us. Race tried to warn us."

So really, maybe what he was looking at wasn't a favour, but a collection of debt. An eye for an eye. Tit for tat. Help for help.

At first, all that could be heard was the rumble of the air conditioning unit, and the steps of the employee as they wandered around in the back, having decided to ignore the two customers sitting alone at the table. Finally, though, Keynote chuckled under his breath, took an obnoxiously loud sip of his drink, and steepled his fingers, looking his friend in the eye, his ever-present grin quirking on his face.

There was a first time for everything, he supposed.

"Tell me what ya' need," The Brooklynite declared with a bit of mirth at the relieved expression on Race's face, "And I'll see what I can do."  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully Race's actions have been somewhat justified. Poor boy.   
> Somebody give Mush an award and a real cup of coffee.
> 
> Onward and upward!
> 
> -Hence


	9. Santa Fe Sunsets (Jack Kelly)

CHAPTER NINE: SANTA FE SUNSETS

JACK KELLY

 

At first, he was met with a startled, and slightly owlish stare. Then-

"Jack." Blink hissed exasperatedly, his one good eye narrowing as he scrubbed at his cheek, only succeeding in smearing the paint further across his face. A few of the other boys chuckled at the sight, the bulky blond scowling as he observed his pink-stained hands, his face streaked in shades of rose, before sighing and trudging off to the bathroom to wash it all off. It was late- probably too late for these kinds of antics, to be honest, but Lodging House Tradition was Lodging House Tradition, and it was an unspoken rule that whenever Jack finished a painting, the closest person to him got a smack with a paintbrush.

"That colour compliments ya' freckles, Blink," Romeo called, smirking after the older boy as he retreated from their collectively shared room, "Really brings out ya' eyes."

This... This was what Jack loved about living with his boys. The late nights and petty arguments, and the easy brotherhood they shared. Kloppman's building, in which they all lived, didn't leave much in the name of privacy, but what it lacked in that regard, it more than made up for in companionship.

Jack could remember the day Kloppman had gone all out, renovating the top floor for them himself. At the time, Jack had been one of the only boys in the House, but he’d come home one afternoon from school to see that the middle-aged man had begun knocking down walls, laying out blueprints, calculating costs. Even then, with only four boys in his care, Kloppman had been looking at the bigger picture.

“There are too many kids in the foster systems, Jackie,” He’d grunted between making blows with a sledgehammer, “They don’t ever get a chance to be in a home. We’re going to change that.”

And so, Jack had helped, as had the other boys. Before long, they’d turned the upstairs floor, once divided into four separate rooms, into one large open space. They let Kloppman handle setting up an adjoining bathroom, and came with him to various sales and stores to look for cheap bunk beds, couches, nightstand, dressers. All the furniture in the Lodging House was gloriously miss-matched, a patchwork quilt of unique pieces in every direction. The boys set about creating a ‘chilling-space’ that summer, in which they raised enough money to buy a television, Kloppman helping them find chairs and bookcases and carpets for the corner of the room.

Eventually, all of those bunk beds would be filled, as would the dressers and the nightstands. It was then that the place had become more of a haven than a project.

Well- a haven of sorts, anyway.

Of course, the other boys, cued by a bit of wittiness, couldn't help but stir the pot a little. Mike and Ike swapped mischevious grins over their card game from the center of the room, seated on Ike's bed, Mike biting his tongue between his teeth for a moment in concentration as he picked up three cards. Without looking up as he studied each in turn, he tossed in his own two cents, his twin brother following suit.

"Such a sparklin' shade of green, ain't they boys?" He asked, winking at Romeo as he played on his prior jab.

"The picture of beauty-"

"Brings out ya' feminine features, it does-"

The speaker didn't have time to finish their statement before Blink poked his head out of the bathroom, half of the paint washed away, the rest of it still slashing colour across his cheekbone and jaw. Nobody dared comment that he had water running down his face, which was quickly creating a growing damp patch on his shirt.

"Hey," He grimaced, pointing a judgemental finger at nobody and everybody all at once, "Anyone who says men can't wear pink can kiss my ass." He disappeared into the bathroom again, his voice rising over the sound of water pouring down the drain, more teasing this time, "I won't stop preachin' until JoJo can wear his fuschia boxers in public without shame."

Specs glanced up from his Spiderman comic with a wrinkled nose and raised eyebrow.

“I speak on behalf of everyone in New York when I say nobody wants to see JoJo in his ginch, fuschia or otherwise.”

The boy in question gave a mock offended look, his hand flying up to his chest in dismay.

“For ya’ information, I am a specimen of rugged beauty.”

Specs snorted, cleaning his classes with the fabric of his extremely faded Hot Wheels t-shirt. 

“Ya’ a specimen of somethin’, though beauty ain’t got anything to do with it.”

Jack smirked as he began cleaning up, grinning to himself as he rinsed his paintbrushes, drying them on his paint-stained flannel. 

Kid Blink wandered past, still drying his face with a hand-towel, leaning over Jack’s shoulder to get a better glimpse at what it was that Jack had been working on. He huffed a quiet laugh, smacking Jack in the back of the head with the towel.

“Another Santa Fe sunset, eh? Don’t ya’ have anything better to paint?”

“I’m paintin’ my future, Blink. What could be better than that?”

Blink gave him a long and steady look, before breaking into a small, slightly bittersweet grin. He clapped him once on the shoulder, then turned away, shouting at Romeo to leave his dartboard darts alone before somebody got hurt.

Another Santa Fe sunset… It was that, but it was also more. After his fight with Race, Jack had been livid and hurt, but most of all, he’d been confused. Santa Fe was his one constant, his grounding dream. It was his safe place, where the world wasn’t quite as frightening and unknown. 

It was his place where he could think.

And he had thought. Race had always had his back, through thick and thin, and to have him step away now from something so important was crushing. In spite of all his certainties and doubts, Jack had never really considered a scenario in which Racetrack Higgins wouldn’t step up and help him out. That was what they did for each other after all. But after a full day of slamming doors and cussing his tongue black, and steaming in his anger, Jack had realized something- being angry didn’t change the outcome. Race wasn’t in, and that meant he’d just have to adapt and work around it. Stewing on the matter wasn’t going to make a change, and that was exactly what Jack was going for.

So, he’d let the matter and the emotions drop over a canvas, and a handful of half-used tubes of paint, leaving new stains on his shirt, and freckles of pink and blue and orange in the cracks of the floorboards. No, dwelling wouldn’t do anything. It was time to move on. 

“Ay, fellas, listen up,” Jack called over the noise of the lodging house, a hush immediately falling over the wild group. One of the many perks of being the leader, Jack mused, was that he always had a voice, and enough respect for others to listen, “Davey, Kath, Crutchie,” Jack exchanged looks with the blond teen, who’d been writing in one of his many notebooks, “And myself- we’re hosting a meeting tomorrow in the Newsroom after school.”

“But isn’t the paper toast?” Jojo asked, absentmindedly tapping his chin with a pencil, and leaving a long, dark smear of graphite there. Jack nodded, willing some iron to strengthen his smile, which he hoped looked bold and dashing.

“That’s what the meeting’s about. We’re starting up our own paper outside of the school- we want it to be an article for change. Pulitzer doesn’t give two shits about the wellbeing of a bunch of orphan and foster kids in New York. He cares about the profit. The bottom line. He sees all the fighting and the bullying, and how dangerous and unfair the Institute’s becoming- Hell, at this point he’s basically harbouring gangs inside his own building, and he don’t give a damn.” Jack smirked a little, seeing his message hit every boy in the room, “But we’re going to make him.”

“With a school paper?” Ike piped up, all laughter gone from his tone. He was being dead serious, a rare feat for the boy, “You really think that’s going to do anything?”

“I’m willing to place my bets on it,” Jack retaliated, looking him straight in the eye, unflinchingly, “We want to interview victims, write our own columns about the truth that goes on behind these doors. We want awareness, and we want people to stand together. If we can convince the student body that they have the power to make a change-”

“Boys,” Crutchie stepped in, setting down his notebook, and reaching for his crutch as he stood, “We’ve gotta give it a chance. Somebody needs to step up. It might as well be us.”

At first, universal silence was the only answer. Then-

“Who all is already in?”

Crutchie and Jack exchanged an awkward glance, turning to face the group together.

“So far, we’ve got Whisper from the Bronx. She’s checking in with her followers. Other than that, it’s just us.” Jack admitted, Specs raising his eyebrows.

“What about Race and Mush? And the rest of Manhattan? Where do they stand?”

Jack bit the inside of his cheek, taking a moment to pack away his paintbrushes and slide his art box back under his bed where it belonged. He took a deep breath before continuing, his voice surprisingly steady, given the circumstances.

“They’re not with us,” He sighed, seeing the dismay in each of his boys’ faces, “Race didn’t want to take the risk. He thinks Pulitzer will crack down on us hard when he finds out.” The Manhattan teen rolled his shoulders tensely, before facing the masses once more, “I’m not going to lie to you, there’s a good chance this is going to get hairy- but it’s not going to work unless we’ve got a whole lot more people and if we stick together. We need to ride this thing out to the end of the line, regardless of Joe, and I can’t do that with only five people.”

“The meeting’s at four o’clock,” Crutchie interjected, drawing himself up to his full height, “We’re not going to force anybody to join, but guys- please, it would mean a lot if you did.”

There were a few scattered nods of consideration, and a few doubtful winces and whispers as well. Jack couldn’t help but let his hopes sink a little- he knew that not having the other Manhattan group on their side would weaken his boys’ courage, but he was hoping that some of them would jump on board regardless. He was asking a lot of them, and he knew that, but this was important.

It was Romeo who tentatively raised his voice first, his skinny arms pulled tight across his chest, previously jovial mood all but gone.

“Is-Is this really a good idea? Goin’ up against Pulitzer like this?”

"Does anybody else have any better plans?" Itey, who'd been silent throughout the whole ordeal responded, sounding strained and bitter. The rough-and-tumble teen was bouncing his knee restlessly, his hands twisting and rolling and tapping ceaselessly in his lap. Crutchie easily plucked a small cube from a tiny box on Itey's dresser, tossing him his fidget dice with an encouraging smile and a small nod. Itey caught it with a practiced action and a nod of his own, his anxious movement quickly beginning to slow as he almost unconsciously began rolling the dice between his nimble fingers, pressing the buttons, and rotating the discs. The sharpness in his eyes faded as he and every other boy in the room regarded their leader, "I'm thinkin' that's a no. So, Jackie, what can we do?"

\--------------------

In the end, Jack knew, not all the boys would be entirely on board. He kept it in his head during school the next day, afraid of getting his hopes up too high. At one point, in between switching classes, he caught sight of Whisper in the hallway, the Bronx leader jerking her chin at him in acknowledgement, but exchanging no words, and definitely not giving him any clue as to whether or not she’d had any success with convincing her borough to join the paper.

When lunch finally rolled around, the day dripping by more slowly than molasses, Katherine and Davey found him at his normal table, setting their lunch trays on either side of his as they chattered on about the meeting, keeping up their conversation through, over, and around him as if he wasn’t there, and doing nothing to improve his mood. As if only to fan the flames, Race had taken to avoiding him, going out of his way to sit on the other side of the cafeteria with Colt and the rest of the Queens goonies. Their leader, Top Hat, was a skinny, tall, rail of a boy with a spattering of bright freckles across his face and arms, equally red hair curling into a wild spiral of bangs across his forehead, the rest of his hair close-cut and short. There was something unsettling about that teen- maybe it was the sharpness of his easy grins or the Peter Pan-ish element to his person; in how he carried himself with a carefree, boyish innocence and personality, only to give off the undeniable sense that he knew some things far beyond his years. Maybe it was the elfin hints to his features, all sharp angles and mischevious tweaks. Maybe it was that there was nothing about him that was as soft as it seemed. Either way, Jack was willing to bet that the gangly, spindly boy who laughed with a full smile of teeth, winked when he told jokes, and kept a thin arm casually over the shoulders of a perpetually stoic girl nearly three full heads shorter than himself, was made of more than he looked to be. Queens wouldn’t have allowed him to be King for so long otherwise, and Top Hat had been in control of that borough since their first week of school in the Institute five years beforehand.

Colt made some kind of joke, Top Hat reaching over, and messing up his near-white hair with a fearless laugh, his face twisting into a crooked smirk that immediately made Jack think of a fox. Race laughed too, accepting a lighthearted punch on the shoulder from the obnoxiously pale boy, before clapping Colt on the back in return, and going to rise from his seat. He caught Jack’s gaze, and his joking demeanour faded, his eyes falling to the floor, upturned grin flopping into a hardened line. Without a second glance, he walked away, this time choosing to take a seat by a solitary Brooklyn boy who raised his eyebrows at the wiry teen over his yogurt cup. He greeted him with familiarity, both of them exchanging words easily, and causing Jack to rip his attention away. He hadn’t been sure what he would have said to Race anyways, had he chosen to sit across from him in his normal spot at their table, but it hurt in some unexpected way to see one of his best friends actively avoiding him, and knowing that he wasn’t being at all secretive about it. 

Crutchie, at least, had the decency to smile at the other Mahattener and wave, a gesture that Race reciprocated with a weak grin, looking slightly more abashed.

“Oh, come on Jack,” Mush cajoled over his half-eaten pizza, leaning past Davey to speak. He either didn’t recognize or care that he had a streak of sauce smeared across his chin, Davey wordlessly cringing away, and flicking him a napkin, “He feels bad enough already. Let it go.”

Jack bristled defensively, catching everyone’s judgemental looks, Katherine’s being one of the worst.

“As of last night, I was ready to let it go,” He snapped, temper flaring, “But then we show up, and he can’t even sit with us anymore?”

Katherine huffed, raising her voice and her eyebrows.

“He has a choice in whether or not to join, Jack.”

“Not joinin’ is one thing,” Jack protested heatedly, “That’s fine, whatever. He’s not hanging around us now because of it though, and that doesn’t fly. Just because our opinions are different-”

“He can sit where he wants, Jack!” Katherine snapped, even angrier than before, her bushy hair giving the impression of a frazzled, bristling cat.

“He’s being an ass-”

If he’d managed to finish that sentence, Jack Kelly would have come to regret it eventually. As it was, he’d come to regret saying even half of it, as Mush finally had enough, slamming his palms on the table, and startling everyone into silence. Mush, who never yelled, was always kind and patient, and had a joke to brighten any bad day. Mush, who was the co-leader of a house of boys, and who was well-accustomed to dealing with them without ever sharpening his tone. Mush, who held his little sister’s hand on her way to school, and who was a happy, heartfelt romantic.

Mush, who slammed his palms on the table hard enough to make it rattle.

Mush, who was pissed beyond any level that Jack had ever seen him.

“You call yourself a leader, Jack?” He asked, eyes blazing. Jack opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words he needed to defend himself against this sudden barrage, “Race is hurting. When he needs his friends, he’ll come back to us, but for now he needs space, and as a person who’s known him as long as you have, you should have recognized that.”

Shame lit a kindling fire in Jack’s gut, and he could practically feel himself shrinking in his seat as Mush continued, “You want to lead this little revolt of yours and have people follow you? Then you need to learn how to communicate and move on without flying off the handle. Give him time.” Mush stood, and moved to leave, his lunch tray gripped tightly in his hands, but thinking twice, he turned on his heel, and lowered his voice significantly, though his eyes were still seething. “Instead of worrying about Race being an ass, maybe you should focus more on getting your head out of yours.”

If indignation boiled on the tip of Jack’s tongue, he didn’t act on it. Instead, he slumped deeper into his seat, wishing he could all but melt into the cool linoleum of the floor as Mush stormed away, not bothering to look back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, everybody!!! School's really picked up over the last few months, and I took Christmas break to relax with my family, so a lot of my projects got put off. Hope everyone had a good break and enjoyed the chapter!  
> Don't forget, if anybody wants extra content for this story, they can check out my Tumblr account, hencecomesautumn! I post all my art and character playlists there, as well as any additional tidbits I can think of.  
> Glad to be back, and thanks for reading!


	10. Catching the Angle (Jack Kelly)

CHAPTER TEN: CATCHING THE ANGLE

JACK KELLY

 

It was so quiet, he could’ve heard a pin drop.

In previous years, back when the school paper had a full crew of helpers and was still a hit with the students, the Newsroom would have been buzzing with energy. People exchanging articles for proofreading and trying to shuffle around one another without knocking over any broken equipment, shouting over the noise of the old printer dutifully spitting out pages rapid-fire, the clicking of computer keys and the slam of the heavy door swinging open and shut. Once, it had been chaos. Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

Now, the loudest noise in the room was his own heartbeat, pounding restlessly in his chest.

A swift glance at the clock on the wall proved that it was time to start the meeting. Admittedly, there wasn’t much of a turnout- Whisper, of course, had arrived, trailing two other Bronx members behind her. The first was a girl easily two heads shorter than himself, with rich chocolate skin and her long hair done up in dozens of magenta and purple braids. They’d passed each other in the hallway once or twice, but he didn’t know her name. The other, a spindly boy with nervous, fluttering hands was more familiar. He was a classmate from Jack’s history course- Chase Wickham, also known as Bingo.

Surrounding the Bronx trio were members of Manhattan. Most of Jack’s house had come, excluding Mike and Ike, who were at after-school Drama club practice, and Specs, who had a shift at the local comic book store as soon as school ended. But the rest of the boys had come- even Boots and Romeo, who were, by far, the youngest of all those gathered.

Seeing them there amongst all the others, Boots tiny enough to have fit two of himself on the desk he’d occupied, and Romeo perched beside Blink, the older boy’s arm slung over his shoulder, made him cringe. Were he not so desperate for people to join the cause, he’d have half a mind to send them both home. Was this what they were hinging their movement on? Throwing twelve-year-olds into the fire?

Jack swallowed drily once, twice, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. Finally, though, he found his voice.

“Well, guess we should probably get this thing started.”

He coughed, clearing his throat, and caught an encouraging smile from Katherine standing to his left. “I’m pretty sure everyone knows why we’re here, so let’s just cut to the chase. I’m Jack- some of you probably know me by Cowboy, and this here’s Kath, Davey, and Crutchie.” Jack gestured blindly around himself, not looking away from his tiny audience. “We’re what’s left of the school paper.”

Romeo started clapping at this, only to look confused as Blink quickly slapped his hands down. 

Whisper threw her feet up on a spare chair, crossing her arms and snapping her gum- a spitting image of exactly how she’d looked the day prior. She raised her eyebrows at him in a way that suggested he cut the intros short and get the ball rolling on the reason they were all gathered.

“We’re taking a stand,” Jack continued, trying to fake the bravado he wished he could emulate naturally, “We’re taking a stand for our safety and our rights. As of tonight, we’re starting our own paper- a students’ protest against this shithole- and if Pulitzer doesn’t like it, he can change his ways or put up a fight. We’re meetin’ him toe for toe either way.”

There were murmurs all around, some in agreement, mostly from Manhattan, but the Bronx members didn’t look wholly convinced. Whisper had warned him that they might be harder to appeal to, and it seemed she hadn’t been wrong.

“Gutsy words there, Kelly,” Said the magenta-haired girl, going to stand behind her leader. She narrowed her eyes, gaze flicking down at Whisper before meeting his again. “So you want us to put our skin in the game? That’s what this is about? Lookin’ for martyrs to carry the red flags?”

Blink snorted humourlessly in response before Jack could answer, pinning the girl with a wry look from his one good eye.

“You got a problem with martyrdom, Violet?”

Violet’s nostrils flared, braids swinging as she jerked her chin up in a display of defensiveness.

“I do when my brothers and sisters could be takin’ a beatin’ for  _ your  _ asses,  _ Blink _ .”

“My brothers are willing to take the beatin’ for yours,” He shot back, arm tightening around Romeo, “Think that one through.”

Violet scowled but fell silent, something akin to shame smudging the expression on her face. It was Bingo who piped up next, surprisingly enough, timid and anxious and fiddling with his hands.

“This is all well and good in theory, guys, but looking at things logistically, I don’t know how we could manage our own paper even if we tried- we don’t have the technology or the budget and-” He gestured weakly around himself, at the motley of broken equipment and limited space, “We’re  _ literally  _ standing in a closet.” He took a second to push his wire-frame glasses up the bridge of his nose, before ticking things off on his fingers, “Cost-wise we need to be looking at paper, printer ink, computers, office supplies- heck, we don’t even have a printer at our disposal anymore, remember?”

Damn, the kid had a point. And as Jack glanced around, his heart sank as he realized everyone was looking at him, waiting for some kind of reassurance that they had already worked this particular detail out. And, he mentally cursed a second later, they hadn’t even  _ discussed  _ cost. The school had given them a crumb of a spending budget, but it had covered all of their supplies, and it had been the secretary who’d dealt with all of their necessary purchases and restocking. He had no idea what something like this project was going to cost them, and no way of getting the money soon anyway-

Fortunately, Kath stepped forward, seeming entirely unfazed with her best “reporter’s face” on. Calm, collected, and in her element amongst the rising pressure, Jack was more than happy to let her take the reins.

“I suggest we start on a digital platform,” She suggested coolly, studying each questioning face in turn, and winking when she reached Jack, “And on multiple platforms simultaneously. That’s our best chance of being able to establish a solid foundation without having to worry about supplies, cost, and shared location.”

Crossing over to the same chalkboard Davey had used to illustrate his own plan to them only days before (Days before? It felt like  _ weeks _ ), Katherine began composing a list. “We can start with making a few social media accounts to raise awareness and direct people towards our online articles which we could post here and here,” Kath scrawled the words “Blogs” and “Website” underneath her social media bullet to make a tidy web chart. “It would be a lot of work, but a website would give us the ability to archive all of our stories, interviews, and progress in one place that we can all access.”

Jack wasn’t surprised at the amount of thought Katherine had put into this. She was a planner by nature, and he admired that about her; he was more of a fly-off-the-cuff kind of person, but in moments like these, as he could see many people nodding along with what she was saying, some even smiling in agreement and, to a degree, excitement, he could tell that her planning was what had reeled them in. 

“We’d also have anonymity,” Davey chipped in, brow furrowed into his classic pondering face, biting his lip, “That takes away a huge amount of the risk factor. We could do everything under pen names or under a collective front, and nobody would have any idea who we are individually.”

More people began nodding, some enthusiastically, and Jack felt his hopes rise a little. There was a low murmur of sound as the students began conversing amongst themselves, up until little Romeo squirmed uncomfortably on his desk and asked, “But the people we talk to about their experiences and stuff? For the articles? They would know who we are, wouldn’t they?”

This stirred up a few wary expressions, but Katherine held firm.

“Only a few of us,” She responded determinedly, jaw tight, “Only those who are willing to put themselves in a position where they might be compromised and punished for this, yes. Everyone else would be safe though- we can count on that much.”

For a few seconds, the room was quiet once again, everyone cycling thoughts through their heads, but no words from their mouths. When Whisper spoke, it almost seemed like an affront to the silence.

“Well, I’m in,” She shrugged, snapping her gum, “Granted, Kelly had me convinced before today, but I’m sick and tired of takin’ this shit. It’s time to do somethin’ about it.” She swung her feet off the desk, and stalked forward, seizing Kath by the hand, and shaking it. “Let’s raise hell.”

Like a dam had broken, students began spilling out of their seats, reaching forward to shake hands or, in the Manhatteners’ cases, ruffle hair, clap backs, and punch shoulders. Within seconds, everyone in the room had become a part of something larger than themselves, and they all seemed to know it. All thoughts of boroughs and reputations were gone and Manhattan and the Bronx bumped shoulders, split desks, and shared attention. They were a team now, and they fell into the concept quickly and seamlessly.

With that settled, Katherine began to divvy up jobs quickly and efficiently, her tone leaving no room for argument. 

“Manhattan, you’re all in charge of getting that website created and put up as soon as possible. There’s enough of you that it shouldn’t be too difficult- Blink, I’m making you the leader there.”

The one-eyed teen gave a brisk salute, mouth quirked into his signature smirk. “You guys will also be the ones updating the webpages, so I’ll leave it to all of you to figure out how you want to split up jobs for all of that.

“Bronx, you’re handling the social media pages. Start with one or two, and see what kind of response we get. I’ll let you choose the platforms. Whisper, I want you to take the lead there, as far as monitoring goes. Let one of us know if you run into any problems.”

Crutchie hobbled forward for the first time in the last forty-five minutes, a brave smile on his face.

“I’ll help with the interviewin’ and reportin’, Kath.”

He said it with such certainty, but Katherine made a hesitant face, and Jack was suddenly reminded of what she’d said about the possibility of being “compromised and punished”. If anyone ratted Crutchie out… Well, he wouldn’t even have the ability to deny it and try to shrug it off as a mistake for being confused with someone else. That crutch of his had made him a target for years, but knots wound themselves tightly in Jack’s stomach as he realized it could make him a target for an entirely different reason now.

“Todd…”

“Ah, c’mon Katherine- I’m mighty approachable! I have a friendly face. It’s all in the smile!” To make his point, Crutchie flashed a megawatt grin, dimples and all, and topped it all off with a hearty chuckle.

Jack could  _ see  _ Kath physically soften, not entirely shocked when she let out a small sigh and nodded. Crutchie had that kind of effect on people, and despite the risk, he’d be good for getting individuals to open up and still feel comfortable and safe while doing so. He reciprocated the other teen’s smile, elbowing him gently when he came to stand next to him.

Davey was quickly assigned blogging duty, which he looked a little stunned about at first.

“I’ve never written a blog post in my life,” He protested when Kath first suggested it, but after a bit of prompting and encouragement, he finally gave in. 

“It’s not that difficult, David,” Kath insisted, “I have a friend I’ll introduce you to- she’s been blogging for ages, and offered to help us start a few blogs of our own. She’s also offered to carry our story on her own blog, which will be a great help. She’s got a following- no, Boots, nothing crazy- but every little bit of support will help.”

The brainiac nodded politely, but he looked full of apprehension. Davey Jacobs was brilliant with sums and equations, but Jack had never known him to be a braggart over his writing skills. He was eloquent and polished and would have one of the best voices out of those gathered, but he was also nervous, and Jack didn’t blame him one bit. Hopefully this friend of Katherine’s would prove to be a good teacher and boost the other boy’s confidence a little.

_ ‘There could be a writer in there somewhere,’  _ Jack mused to himself, trying to picture Davey with a thesaurus in his hand instead of a chemistry textbook. It wasn’t a hard image to conjure.

Katherine had turned to him, though, so he focussed again on the situation at hand, straightening his spine, and subconsciously trying to tug his flannel into a less-disheveled version of itself. Why he needed to look more presentable, he had no idea, but it felt right in the moment.

“Jack, I-”

Before Jack could find out  _ what  _ exactly it was that she wanted, light filled the dingy room, and the door swung so far back on its hinges that it slammed into a pile of filing, which toppled to the floor in a snowfall of papers and manila folders. 

For a horrifying, heart-stopping moment, Jack was certain that someone had reported them to Pulitzer and that within the hour, they’d be packing themselves off to the Refuge. His breath clumped itself up in a tight, wheezing ball in his chest, his eyes growing wide and scanning fruitlessly for an easy exit.

He wouldn’t have found one, but, in any case, it proved he wouldn’t need to as a cheerful voice drawled, “Started without us, eh? Damned rude of ya’.”

Jack blinked unbelievingly as a jaunty redhead with an elfin face full of freckles sauntered his way into the Newsroom, a pale-haired boy whisking in behind him. “What time did he say this meetin’ was supposed to start, Colt?”

“Five, Hatsy.” His counterpart replied, looking oddly smug.

Top Hat, leader of the Queens borough, checked his watch with a click of his tongue. 

“Five-o-five on the nose. Enough time to be fashionably late, but not long enough to miss the whole damned dinner and pie, mates.” He quirked an eyebrow at Jack, smirking, “Unless, of course, the little bugger got the time wrong.”

Jack was still tripping over his tongue in surprise at Queens’ miracle appearance as Top Hat maneuvered his way through the rest of the congregation to shake Jack’s hand and joke, “That’s the trouble with takin’ info from gamblers. You take a gamble on it being  _ right _ .” Then he turned around and called, “Oi, Callaway! Get everyone’s asses in here- the party’s started without us!”

Seconds later, Jack wasn’t the only one dumbstruck beyond speech. Cued by Top Hat’s words, a steady stream of people began siphoning through the door. Jack caught sight of several more members of Queens as they flooded the remaining space, led by a mousy-haired boy who Jack assumed must be Calloway, and a dark-haired Indian girl with sharp, speculating eyes, and a natural, cool frown on her face. She stepped up alongside Top Hat with smooth, unfaltering confidence and grace that left Jack feeling strangely unsettled, but the parade wasn’t done.

He blinked twice when the first Manhattener stepped curiously through the door, then the next, then another. Soon enough, most of Miss Cardinal’s Lodging House boys had joined the motley, milling among his own troop. Mush was the last of them to enter, the lanky teen slapping Blink on the back and putting a hand on Romeo’s shoulder, before flashing a tentative smile at Jack that said everything and nothing all at once.

_ ‘They came,’  _ Jack thought numbly, in shock, ‘ _ They all came. _ ’

One more person had yet to make an entrance though, and as he did, the whole room fell quiet once more. Dressed all in black, his jeans ripped and combat boots stained with mud, a Green Day patch stitched onto his leather jacket, and midnight hair spiked with gel, he slipped in like a shadow. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea, his grey eyes sweeping the room with a kind of studious care that Jack couldn’t discern as mischevious, inquisitive, or amused.

The boy grinned a knife-slash of a smile as he caught everyone staring, and unexpectedly dropped himself to sit on the floor, legs splayed out in front of him. Unwrapping a Tootsie Roll lollipop that he’d plucked from his jacket pocket, he twirled it in his fingers, saying “Brooklyn sends their regards,” before popping it in his mouth and reclining back against a folding table.

Brooklyn. They’d even gotten  _ Brooklyn _ . As it was, it was only one person from Brooklyn, but that was better than no representation from the esteemed borough at all.

“Race sends his regards as well,” Mush said softly, grabbing Jack’s attention as he held the other Manhattener’s gaze, “And sends his friends in his place.”

“... _ Damn _ , the kid’s got a lot of friends.” Colt fired back, quirking a smile at both Manhattan leaders while the room went up in laughter- much more laughter than there would have been even ten minutes ago, Jack noticed, sharing a look among his fellow co-founders.

“Alright guys and gals, give us the plan,” Top Hat ordered when speaking volume had been acquired once more, “I’ve got Skip the Dishes comin’ in about forty-seven minutes and I’m not goin’ home to cold pad-thai because of you lot. So,” The boy’s expression slipped into one of icy satisfaction, his teeth glinting eerily sharp in the poor lighting, “Let’s get right to it, shall we?”

  
  
  
  


Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wwwwWWOOOOOOO BOI has it been an actual eon since I last posted! Oh my word, guys, I'm so sorry.   
> Huge thanks to all of you who have stuck to this story even in my absence. You guys are the greatest. Another huge thanks goes out to all of the people who've left kudos and comments on this story since I last posted as well. Your recognition has been long overdue.  
> Lastly, for anybody interested in checking out my fanart, playlists for characters and boroughs, and other cool tidbits for both Newsies and this fanfic, please feel free to check out my tumblr account hencecomesautumn! I archive most of my Newsies work there, including posts notifying about updates to this piece, and it's a real fun time had by all.
> 
> Thanks for welcoming me back (again), and have a good one everybody!  
> -Hence


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